Where the Heart Is
by Amari Bell
Summary: Jack needs somewhere to live, and Ian needs a housekeeper who can handle his seven-year-old nephew. They all end up with something they didn't expect.
1. A Nice Enough House

**A Nice Enough House**

**This is basically the story of how Jack came to live with Alex and Ian. I'm thinking about continuing this as a series of interconnected one-shots about Jack's life with the Riders, before she knew anything about MI6. (I know I should be working on my other AR story, but I was in the mood to write something different...)  
**

**Hope you enjoy! **

It was a nice enough house. Terraced, redbrick, with white trim and slate shingles. Jack certainly wouldn't want to live there forever, but the location was good. And the ad had promised free lodging in exchange for "baby-sitting and light housework"—too good to be true for a poor American law student at King's College.

Jack approached the front door. And then she paused. If only she had thought to remove the nail polish. Or, at least, she could have repainted with a color more conservative than shocking red. And if only she had tied back her wild red hair, or at least tucked it beneath the handmade wool beret that she had bought in Paris—but then again, the beret was a dark burgundy that clashed horribly with her hair, and she didn't want Mr. Rider to think that she was visually impaired any more than she wanted him to think she was a red-nailed dominatrix.

She knocked at the door. "Mr. Rider?"

A little bird warbled cheerfully from the top branches of a tree. A breeze tangled Jack's hair worse than it already had been. The strap of her book-bag cut into her shoulder. There was no sign of life from inside the house.

"Mr. Rider?" Jack called again, knocking harder. "Hello? Is anyone—"

The door swung open. "Jack, I'm glad you made it."

Jack blinked. "I—um, thanks. You too."

She could have kicked herself. With three barely coherent words, she had already established herself as a nutcase. But she had been thrown off by the man standing in the doorway. When she had read that Ian Rider was a bank employee taking care of a seven-year-old boy, she had pictured a thirty-something guy with a white-collared shirt, thinning hair, and a harassed Good Ol' Dad smile. She had never imagined he would look so composed, and so _cool_. He had fair hair and the clearest blue eyes Jack had ever seen, and he wore dark slacks and a black buttoned-up shirt. Some nice brand. She couldn't pinpoint it.

"You talked a bit more over the phone," Ian remarked.

His voice was dry and somehow elegant. Of course, Jack had heard his voice before, but it sounded different now because it was paired with his face. She felt herself flush.

"I'm sorry," she blurted. "It's just—you just don't look like a dad—not that I think all dads have to look a certain way, but you don't exactly look like one. I thought for a second that I might be at the wrong house."

Ian Rider watched her casually, one hand in his pocket."You wrote down the address, didn't you?" he asked at length.

"Well—yeah, I did. And I'm usually pretty good at things like this, introductions and stuff. But I—I didn't think—I mean, God." Jack felt like melting into a puddle on the pavement. "I told myself not to screw this up, but sometimes my id doesn't listen to my ego."

Ian Rider finally spared her with a quick half-grin. "Well, you're honest."

"Yeah. That's one way of putting it."

Ian laughed, and Jack's spirits lifted considerably.

"Why don't you come inside, Jack? I just have a few questions. Nothing too stressful."

"Sounds good," Jack agreed, trying to sound more professional than eager.

She followed Ian through the living room. It was all a blur—she only noticed that the place was a little too stylish to seem real, like a cutout from a home décor magazine. Ian led her to the kitchen. The expensive marble countertops and stainless steel appliances gleamed and sparkled. Whatever was Ian's job at the bank, it paid well. But the spotlessness made Jack's skin crawl. If she moved in here, she would certainly fix that.

"Tea?" Ian asked, pulling back a chair to allow Jack to sit. "Or—you're American—I could make some coffee, if you like."

Jack sat down and tried to look graceful. "Actually, tea would be lovely."

The only tea she ever drank was Nestea Iced Tea, and the only time she ever used the word "lovely" was when she was faking an English accent or trying to win points with her professors. But Ian couldn't know that. He filled the kettle with water, and Jack watched nervously.

"I like your house," she said, while Ian stirred the brewing tea.

He glanced up at her. "What do you like about it?"

Jack blinked. "Well, I mean," she stammered. "It's very neat. And modern-looking. Plenty of sweeping curves and geometric shapes that contribute to the—um—the clean lines. Art Deco, I guess."

"A well-schooled analysis," Ian said, sounding amused. "You like interior design?"

"Um, well, no. But I did spend last year studying art at the Sorbonne. And interior design is sort of like art, right?"

Ian poured milk into a mug and added the boiling tea. "I suppose anything can be considered a work of art in the proper eyes."

She nodded quickly. "Yeah. Absolutely."

Ian pushed the mug across the table. "Here you are, Jack. Sugar?"

"Yeah, thanks."

He set the sugar bowl before her.

"Aren't you having any?" she asked awkwardly.

Ian shook his head. "I'm more a fan of coffee, myself."

"Oh."

Ian turned his back to her and replaced the box of tealeaves so that Jack wouldn't see him grinning. He closed the white cupboards. Then, quite bland-faced, he sat across from her. "Your instinct was partially right."

"I'm—sorry?"

Ian's lip twitched slightly.

"Your instinct was right," he repeated, speaking slowly and clearly. "I'm not a dad. Alex is my nephew. I became his guardian when his parents died six years ago."

Jack's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, my God. The poor kid."

Ian shrugged. "I'm not sure Alex even remembers them."

"I'm sure they were lovely people," Jack said.

Something like annoyance flickered in Ian Rider's blue eyes. "Jack, you're not helping yourself by trying to sound posh. Just be yourself. You sounded perfect over the phone."

Jack's stomach fluttered. "Sorry. I just—I wasn't prepared. I pictured you—"

"You know what, Jack? I pictured you without the red hair. And a bit more polite. It looks as though we'll both have to adjust our first impressions."

Jack winced. There was no mistaking it this time. He was annoyed. She opened her mouth to speak again, but the phone rang. Ian sighed.

"Just a moment," he said, and disappeared into the next room.

Jack was left alone in silence. She sipped the tea. It was bitter.

"I can't do this right now." Ian Rider's muffled voice was just audible through the kitchen wall. "You know I have Alex. He's—well, he's very responsible. But he's seven years old."

A brief pause. The kitchen was too empty, and quiet, and still—just for something to do, Jack rummaged around in her book-bag until she found her French beret. She nestled it sideways on her tangled red hair. Then she stood up, studied her reflection on the stove, and smirked. She looked simultaneously artistic and colorblind.

"I'm not being clear?" Ian said suddenly, in a dangerous voice that Jack hoped would never be directed at her. "I could carve the message into your forehead, if you'd prefer_._"

Flushing again, too embarrassed to press her ear against the wall but too curious to plug her ears, Jack sat down and stirred her tea. The spoon tinkled against the sides of the white mug. Her hand was shaking slightly. Nerves.

"I don't have time for this," Ian said finally. "Oh—for God's sake, don't be absurd. I know what my job is, but look at what happened the last time I left Alex alone with a babysitter." A sarcastic laugh. "You know what? Let me talk to Blunt. Put him on the line."

There was a brief pause. Ian's voice was getting quieter; Jack strained her ears for his next words, and even leaned a few inches closes to the wall. Closer—closer—

"Nice hat."

She jumped as though she'd just jammed her finger into an electric socket. A little boy was leaning against the doorframe, an action figure trailing from one hand. He had fair hair and brown eyes too serious for his age. Jack stared at him, her mouth opening and closing, like a goldfish that would rather suffocate than admit to eavesdropping.

The little boy hesitated. "Um—parlez-vous le français?"

Jack blinked, surprised. "Oui."

"Etes-vous ma nouvelle nourrice?"

"Um—je ne sais pas."

The little boy raised an eyebrow, and Jack could see a ghost of his uncle in him. "Vous faites bien. La dame précédente a pleuré après cinq minutes."

Jack struggled to comprehend his fast, fluent words. "Elle a pleuré?"

Alex Rider nodded solemnly. "Ian est impitoyable."

Jack laughed. If the previous applicant for this job had burst into tears after five minutes, perhaps she wasn't doing so badly after all. But Ian had never mentioned that his nephew was French. Jack was lucky that she had studied the language in college and spent a year at the Sorbonne, or she could have kissed this job good-bye.

"Your uncle's an interesting man," she muttered to herself, assuming that the little French boy (who looked astoundingly English) wouldn't understand her.

The boy frowned. "You speak English?"

Jack jumped again, electrocuted for the second time in five minutes. "Oui."

"Then why are we speaking French?"

Oh, God. Just when Jack thought she couldn't feel any stupider than she already did.

"You started it," she said pathetically.

"Because you weren't talking to me," the little boy said patiently. "I thought you didn't know English."

"Well, I do."

"Okay," the boy agreed. "My name's Alex."

"I—I'm Jack."

"Nice to meet you." Alex plopped down at the kitchen table and, with his small fingers, carefully poured himself a cup of tea.

Jack looked at the tuxedo-clad action figure that Alex had dropped on the table. "What's this?" she said, lifting the action figure and moving its plastic arms around. "Ooh. Very cool. James Bond, right? The famous double-oh-seven?"

Alex shrugged. "I don't know. Ian gave it to me. I think it's sort of ugly."

Jack laughed. "You know, I'd have to agree with that. What a womanizing ass. I always preferred Indiana Jones. You know, the rugged type."

Alex shrugged again, not even glancing up from his tea. Jack sighed. The kid was probably wondering what the hell this crazy red-haired American girl was talking about.

"When your uncle gets off the phone, I think he's gonna kick me out," she said. "I've been saying all the wrong things."

"Don't worry," Alex said, smiling at her. "Ian messes with people all the time. It's like a test."

"If so, I think I've failed."

Alex shrugged. "You're a lot nicer than my last baby-sitter. She was yucky and old."

"Really? How old?"

"I don't know. Two hundred years, at least. Her name was Winifred." He made a sour face, and then grinned.

Jack smiled back. Alex may have been prone to exaggeration, but he certainly knew how to cheer someone up. "What happened to Winifred?" she asked.

"She was stealing things," Alex explained.

"Oh, my gosh," Jack said, wide-eyed, picturing a middle-aged nanny slipping Ian Rider's spare change into the pockets of her apron.

"Yeah. My mum's old jewelry, things like that. And Winifred didn't know quite what to do when I caught her, so she put me inside the closet with an umbrella barring the door shut, and she just didn't come back the next day."

"Wow," Jack said, trying not to smile. She liked this kid's imagination. He was strangely reminiscent of her childhood self. "How'd you get out?"

"I broke down the door," Alex said, giggling.

Jack gasped. "Wow! That's very impressive, Alex. I'll make sure never to get on your bad side."

He looked at her like she was mad. "I was only joking, Jack. I'm too small to break down a door. I found a wire hanger that fit through the crack and I used it to move the umbrella, and then I called Ian. It was no big deal."

Jack nodded with mock seriousness. "Uh huh. And what did Ian do?"

"I don't know exactly. He got really angry. And my babysitter got arrested for—theft and child abuse, I think. Does that sound right?"

"Shit," Jack said, and clamped both hands over her mouth. It had just occurred to her that Alex was telling the truth.

"Charming, Jack."

Jack spun around and found Ian Rider watching her coolly from the doorway, his arms folded. Jack's face turned redder than her hair. "I—um, sorry."

Ian sighed. "Jack, I have to ask you to—"

"No. First let me say something, please." Jack stood up, fueled by determination and desperation. "I know I haven't made the best first impression. But I just came to England last week. I've been staying at the Lady Luck Motel, in a supposedly non-smoking room that stinks of cigarettes and has little round burns all over the furniture, and the fire alarm goes off every time I take a shower. I've been surviving on Ramen noodles. My parents just called me last night to let me know that they've decided to separate, and it's probably only a temporary thing, and I shouldn't worry too much. Plus, I forgot to take my nail polish off."

Ian narrowed his eyes. "I didn't ask for excuses, Jack."

"I know. But I want you to understand where I'm coming from, Mr. Rider. I have no money, and no decent baby-sitting references, either. Whenever I open my mouth, it's just to switch whatever foot is in there."

"Jack—"

"But I'm good with kids," Jack plunged on. "I'm just a big kid myself. And your son—"

"Nephew," Ian said dryly.

"Nephew! God, sorry! Your nephew already seems amazing. I know we'll get along great. And I'm good at housework. I'm a housecleaning fiend. Although I don't think it would be possible for this place to get any cleaner. But I'll do my part. I promise, Mr. Rider."

"Ian."

"What?"

"Just call me Ian."

Jack blinked. "O-kay."

Ian sat down at the kitchen table and ruffled Alex's hair. The boy's eyes were glued to the tabletop, devastatingly emotionless, because it was the only way he could keep from snickering. Ian folded his arms and scrutinized the red-haired woman standing breathlessly at the other end of the table.

"Can I please finish what I was about to say, Jack?"

"Um—sure." Jack sat down with a surprising amount of dignity, given the circumstances.

"Right." Ian sighed. "I have to ask you to start immediately."

A beat of silence.

"What?" Jack said, thinking she must have misheard.

"I've just gotten an important call from work. There's been some trouble with the bank's foreign partners, and I'm supposed to get on a flight to Hong Kong this afternoon."

"Hong Kong?" Jack stared at him. "This afternoon?"

"Yes."

"It _is_ the afternoon."

"I know that." Ian ruffled Alex's hair again. "You like Jack, don't you, Alex?"

Alex pretended to consider. "Can she cook?"

"That depends on your definition of cooking," Jack muttered. "Look, Mr. Rider, what did you say your job was?"

"I didn't." He looked her in the eye. "I work as an overseas finance manager for the Royal and General Bank."

"Really?" Jack wrinkled her nose.

"No. That's only my cover story. I'm actually a government operative, and I've saved the world a fair few times—it's all top secret, obviously."

Jack laughed, feeling foolish for about the millionth time that day. "I'm sorry. I just meant—you seem like you should be doing something more important than overseas finance—I mean, not that I don't think you're important! I'm sure overseas finance managers are very important. But you seem like you should be doing something more—dangerous."

"Do I seem dangerous to you?" Ian said curiously.

"Well—no."

"Then why should I have a dangerous job?"

"I don't know."

Ian smiled at some private joke. He was a quiet man, and somewhat serious, but when he smiled he put Jack entirely at ease. "I'm an overseas finance manager, Jack. And at the moment I need to get on a flight to Hong Kong."

"Right." Jack's face was heating up again. "Gotcha."

"With my work, I travel a lot. Sometimes I bring Alex with me, but this time I'll be especially busy, and Alex would only be bored. Can you look after him while I'm away?"

"Of course," Jack said immediately. "That's my job."

Ian had already disappeared into the next room. She heard his footsteps on the wooden stairs, and less than thirty seconds later he reappeared downstairs with a duffel bag in hand and a dark jacket draped over his arm. Alex didn't seem surprised. He was making his James Bond action figure do cartwheels along the edge of the table.

"You're already done packing?" Jack said, staring at Ian. "Do you have a change of clothes? A toothbrush? Do you need—"

"I think you're confused," Ian said gently. "It's Alex you're supposed to be taking care of."

"Right. Sorry."

Ian looked closely at her for a moment. Then, without warning, he caught her by the arm and pulled her roughly into the nook between the living room and the kitchen. It was dark, but even in the shadow she could see a sudden intensity in those clear blue eyes. They were burning with cold fire.

"Ian," Jack said, inching away from him. "I don't feel comfortable with—"

"Make no mistake," Ian Rider said, very quietly. "If anything bad happens to Alex—well, for your own sake, Jack, make sure nothing bad happens."

Their faces were inches apart. Jack could see the flecks of gray in his eyes. Ian could smell the pineapple in her shampoo.

"Nothing bad will happen," she said, looking him boldly in the eye.

Then she found herself standing alone in the shadows. She stepped back into the kitchen, blinking in confusion. Ian was hugging Alex and reminding him about his karate lessons and making him promise to keep out of trouble, and then Ian was pointing at the stairs and explaining to Jack where she would be sleeping—"at the end of the hall, by the crying mask"—and then he was slipping the spare key into Jack's hand and wishing her luck.

And then he was gone. The door locked, the driveway empty, the silence deafening.

Jack looked at the little boy who had suddenly become her responsibility, and she wondered what the hell she had gotten herself into.

**AN: She has no idea. :) Thanks for reading! Now for the translations…**

_Alex: Do you speak French? _

_Jack: Yes. _

_Alex: Are you going to be my new babysitter? _

_Jack: I don't know._

_Alex: You're doing well. The last lady started crying after five minutes._

_Jack: She cried?_

_Alex: Ian is merciless._

**PLEASE review and let me know what you think! :) **


	2. Home, Sweet Home

**First of all, sorry I've been MIA. :( I don't think I've even glanced at fanfiction since the last time I posted, but I'll have a lot more time over the next week or so. **

**This chapter kind of fleshes out the relationship between Jack and Ian...and there's some adorable Alex tossed in, of course. :D I suspect there might be typos, grammar mistakes, etc. I also suspect that my eyes would cross if I tried to read this over again, so I'll just post it. Enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: Alex Rider no es mío. Estoy triste, pero voy a sobrevivir. :'(**

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

God, no. Jack flailed her hand wildly in the darkness—it wasn't time to wake up yet, it couldn't be. She had only closed her eyes an hour ago. After cooking (and burning) dinner for Alex, running a marathon of household errands, and studying by moonlight, she wasn't quite prepared to face the sunrise.

Her hand collided with something, and there was a crash and a thud.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Finally—there it was, a round plastic shape that felt vaguely like a digital alarm clock. Jack slammed her hand on top of it, once, twice, until she finally connected with the snooze button.

Ah, silence. Sweet silence.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

"No," Jack moaned into her pillow.

This next alarm, a miniature clock balanced on her bedpost, sounded exactly like the shrill, grating fire alarm from the Lady Luck motel. Jack fumbled blindly and accidentally knocked the clock between the bed and the wall, where it promptly kept ringing.

Then the third alarm started.

"_Some will win—some will lose—some were born to sing the blues—_"

"AHHHGH!"

Jack flung aside her blankets and hurled her pillow across the room. She missed, of course—the pillow bounced off a brass-framed mirror and knocked over the flower-petal desk lamp she had bought at a thrift store yesterday. Under the bed, the harsh ringing finally stopped, but on the desktop, from somewhere inside the cheap clock/CD player, Steve Perry wailed his heart out.

"Good morning, Jack."

Jack jumped to her feet, tugging at her oversized sleep shirt. Ian Rider was standing in the doorway, looking faintly amused. Judging by his sport coat and his half-empty duffel bag, he had just gotten home from the airport. There was a dark, faint mark on his cheek—a bruise? Perhaps the bank's foreign partners hadn't liked Ian's business proposals, Jack thought wryly.

"You're back," she said aloud.

"Home, sweet home." Ian looked curiously at her. "You seem almost disappointed."

Jack flushed, and immediately hated herself for flushing. She'd been living there for the past two weeks; she should have already moved past the awkward stage. But for those past two weeks, Ian hadn't been home. He hadn't even called.

"_Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard_—"

"Are you planning to turn that off?" Ian asked conversationally.

Jack flushed again and looked at the CD alarm clock. "It's—well, it's my third alarm. I usually let it play for a while. I mean, it's a good song, right?"

"I'm more a fan of classical," Ian said calmly.

Jack wrinkled her nose. "That makes one of us."

Ian smiled, and then hesitated. It looked as though he wanted to say something—as though a word was waiting at the tip of his tongue. Eventually, though, he just shrugged.

"I'll see you downstairs, Jack."

He disappeared; Jack stared at the empty doorway, wondering what had just happened.

"_Don't stop believing_—_Hold onto the feeling—_"

She stepped in front of the mirror and fluffed her red hair. She looked terrible. It didn't seem fair that Ian was allowed to see her at her morning worst, when he always looked his best—calm and cool. The stupid sneak. Perhaps she ought to peek into his room at seven in the morning and see how he liked it.

Then again, she reminded herself reluctantly, she had left her bedroom door wide open . . .

"Are you okay, Jack?"

Jack jumped, for the second time in five minutes. This time, Alex had poked his tousled blonde head inside—and she was much happier to see him than she had been to see Ian.

"I'm fine, Alex." She yawned and turned off the CD player. "Sorry about the noise."

"I've gotten used to it." The little boy looked at the latticed wooden lamp on the floor, and his eyes turned as round as tea saucers. "You broke Ian's lamp?"

Jack flushed. "I—I was reaching for the alarm clock. It was an accident. I'll buy Ian a new lamp."

"It's from Korea," Alex said, very matter-of-factly.

Jack blinked. "Oh." _Shit._

"He hates it," Alex added, grinning.

"He hates Korea?"

Alex stared at her. "He hates the lamp."

"Oh, for God's sake." Jack rubbed her tired eyes. "You enjoy freaking me out, don't you, Alex? It's like a game to you."

The little boy grinned again. "If that's true, I think you're down a few points."

"Yeah, yeah." Jack shot him a mock serious glare. "Go get dressed."

Alex giggled and walked away; as soon as his footsteps creaked at the opposite end of the hall, Jack sighed. She felt almost deflated, and she wasn't sure why. Yawning, she stepped out into the plush-carpeted corridor. A Chinese opera mask, painted white with sad eyes and elaborate swirls of color, stared dolefully at her from the wall.

"Oh, shut up," Jack told it tolerantly, and padded downstairs.

She had half-expected to see Alex at the head of the kitchen table, drinking a tall glass of orange juice, as he did every morning—instead, she found Ian at the head of the table, and Alex bouncing excitedly in the chair beside him.

"What is it?" Alex was trying to sound as calm as his uncle, but Jack could tell how excited the little boy was. "Is it a saber, like yours? Is it a dragon boat?"

"I don't think a dragon boat would fit in his duffel," Jack muttered, and Alex grinned.

"Patience, Alex," Ian said sternly. "Close your eyes."

Alex squeezed his eyes shut tight and held out his small hands, palms up—Ian leaned over and rummaged through his bag until he found a small black box. He placed it in Alex's hands.

"Okay, Alex, have a look."

Alex opened his eyes eagerly; when he saw the box, he fumbled it open and pushed aside a piece of tissue paper to reveal the gift. It was a metal circle, silvery-gold, almost four inches in diameter. The surface was decorated with Chinese symbols and scaly dragons. Alex looked at it for a moment. Then he flipped open the lid.

"It's a compass," he said slowly.

"Exactly right, Alex. A Feng Shui compass, it's called."

Jack stepped closer and leaned over Alex's head to get a closer view. The compass itself reminded her of a cross section of a tree—it had many small rings. Each was inscribed with delicate white Chinese symbols that neither Jack nor Alex could read. Tiny white numbers marked off degrees by fives, all the way around the exterior of the circle.

When Alex lifted the compass, the needle quivered slightly. Then, with a shudder, it returned to the direction it had been pointing.

"What a flimsy little needle," Jack muttered. Ian frowned slightly at her.

"It's pointing south," Alex stated.

Ian nodded, sparing his nephew with a brief half-smile. "Exactly right. The same is true for all Feng Shui compasses." He ruffled Alex's hair. "No one else will know which way the needle points, so the only person that can use this compass is you."

Alex forced a smile. "Thanks, Ian. I really like it."

Jack's heart almost broke. The poor kid. If Ian was so perceptive, how could he not see that his nephew would have been much happier with a little stuffed dragon or a paper-fan painted with lions and zebras and panda bears?

Ian glanced up. Jack realized she was staring; she looked away quickly, but not before his blue eyes locked with her green ones. Connection shot between them—her face felt hot. She turned away and looked inside the fridge for some breakfast ingredients, trying to act as though nothing had happened.

She cracked some eggs into a bowl and beat them furiously. At the table, Ian was explaining in great detail how to construct a makeshift compass from a needle, a magnet, a cork, and a bowl filled with water. Jack glared fiercely at the counter and chopped a tomato with dangerous precision.

"—And after you've finished rubbing the needle against the magnet, thirty strokes or so, you'll need to put the needle in the cork and place it in the center of the bowl—" Ian glanced around the kitchen and snatched Jack's white bowl of yellow flowers from the countertop. "This will do."

Jack blinked, the big knife frozen in her hand. "Ian, I just picked those flowers from—"

Before she could squeeze out another word, Ian swept the daffodils out of the water and laid them on the table in disorder. Then he placed the cork and the magnetized needle in the center of the bowl. It floated, and turned slowly, and stopped when it was pointing north.

"Wow!" This time, Alex actually seemed impressed.

"It's the magnetic field," Ian explained. "It turns the ends of the needle toward the poles."

Alex studied the makeshift compass for a long moment. He touched the cork; it wobbled in the water and drifted sideways, a miniature boat. The needle soon righted itself. Alex looked curiously at his uncle.

"So—I can just build my own compass?"

"With the proper materials, yes," Ian said, gesturing to the bowl, cork, and needle.

"Then why'd you buy me one?"

Ian blinked, startled. "It—well—it's rather more difficult to carry around a bowl of water than a regular compass, Alex."

Alex got up to pour himself a glass of orange juice. "If you say so."

Jack smirked. For the first time since she met the Riders, Ian's cool had been shaken—and she liked it that way. She tossed all the ingredients into a frying pan—and when Alex asked for extra cheese on his omelet, despite Ian's remonstrative glance, Jack grabbed another slice from the fridge.

Alex finished breakfast quickly. He disappeared to brush his teeth and get his school things ready, and suddenly the kitchen table was very quiet. Forks scraped against plates, and glasses clinked softly, but neither Jack nor Ian spoke. Jack had a strange sense that Ian was staring at her, but whenever she glanced his way, he always seemed to be staring into his food, or checking his watch, or pouring himself another cup of coffee.

Jack cleaned her plate first and stood up. "ALEX!" she screamed. "WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR LUNCH?"

"PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY!" Alex hollered from the other side of the house.

Ian was staring again. Jack could feel his blue eyes burning into her. But when she glanced into the reflection on the stove, she saw that Ian was reading a newspaper, his eyes flicking back and forth. Jack spread peanut butter and grape jam on wheat bread, trying not to feel self-conscious.

After ten minutes, Alex poked his head into the kitchen and checked the clock near the ceiling. "I might miss the bus today," he said worriedly.

"No, you won't," Jack said, tossing him his lunch bag. "Run like hell."

Alex grinned, caught the lunch bag with one hand, and raced for the front door. "BYE, JACK!" A brief pause. "BYE, IAN!"

And, again, there was silence. Jack put away the peanut butter and jelly. She toyed with a strand of red hair, twirling it around her finger, waiting for Ian to leave so that she could start on the dishes. The man was playing a game of restraint, and she was determined not to snap first.

But when, after five minutes, he was still sitting there with the newspaper, Jack couldn't bite her tongue any longer.

"Shouldn't you be on your way to work?" she blurted.

It came across much more flustered and much less nonchalant than she had intended. Ian glanced up at her. "Not today, Jack. I just got home from the conference this morning."

Jack flushed. She cranked on the water at the kitchen sink, rinsed the dishes, and scrubbed them as though they had earned her wrath. Bubbles clung to her arms and bounced out of the sink. She finished one plate. Then, without planning to, she whipped around, a soapy dishrag clutched in hand.

"Stop staring at me," she said loudly.

Ian set down his newspaper. "Jack—"

"Please," she added, in an attempt to sound more polite.

"I'm not staring at you." He paused. "Or, at least, I wasn't until now."

God, what a liar. She returned to the sink and scrubbed Alex's dish. The white porcelain sparkled, but she wanted it cleaner, cleaner—

Then she felt a hand touch her shoulder. "Jack."

She spun around again, flinging soapsuds everywhere. "I'm working here, Ian."

Then she blinked in surprise. Ian was holding a small black box, not unlike the one he'd given Alex, inscribed with a silver Chinese symbol.

"What's that?"

"Yours. Take it."

He pressed the box into her hand; she took it silently, but didn't look inside.

"I'm sorry I've been staring at you," Ian said, with a quiet implication that he, of course, had nothing to really be apologizing for. "I've been trying to understand your behavior, and I think I've got it figured out."

"Oh really?" Jack said, arching an eyebrow.

"More or less." He turned away, folding the newspaper on the table. "You've been here for two weeks, taking care of a house that's not yours, and a boy you hardly know."

"I think I know Alex pretty well by now," Jack said defensively.

She couldn't see Ian's face, but she thought he must be frowning. "Exactly. You're more protective of him than I ever would've expected. And you're probably furious that I disappeared for two weeks without so much as a phone call."

Jack glared. "As a matter of fact—"

He looked at her. "I don't usually call when I'm away, Jack. Company policy."

"But that's not fair," she said, hating how her voice sounded like a whine. "What if something happens to you? What if Alex needs to talk to you? What if—" Her voice broke. "What if I'm afraid you won't come back?"

And she knew, as the words left her mouth, that this was exactly why she had mentally criticized Ian's every move since he'd come home, and exactly why she could hardly stand to look at him. For two agonizing weeks, she had been secretly terrified that Ian wouldn't come home. She had nightmares about it—Ian flying off into the sunset, and Alex asking when his uncle would be back, and Jack desperately trying to balance school, her own house, and her own—albeit surrogate—son.

A ghost of a smile flicked across Ian's face. "As long as I'm alive, I'll come home. And if I don't—well, I've made other arrangements. I would never ask you to take on that kind of responsibility, Jack. You're, what, nineteen?"

She felt strangely flattened. "Twenty-two."

"Twenty two," he corrected promptly. "You have school. And I'm sure you're not planning to stay in London forever, are you?"

"No," Jack agreed quickly.

"Once I'm gone—if it ever happens, I mean—don't worry about Alex. He'll be cared for."

There was too much confidence packed into the last four words—it sounded to Jack as though Ian wasn't only trying to convince her, but also himself.

"This whole conversation is just morbid," she said awkwardly. "I mean, what could happen to you? You're just a bank manager. And you're—I mean, you seem unbelievably fit." As soon as the words crossed her lips, she blushed.

"There's something else bothering you," Ian said smoothly, changing the subject. "At breakfast. You're not too crazy about the Chinese compass, are you?"

Jack only shrugged.

Ian smirked, and his resemblance to Alex was striking. "Jack, forget about tact—we don't need it here."

Jack looked defiantly at him. "Fine. I'm not crazy about the compass, and I'm not crazy about your—your parenting techniques, either."

"I'm Alex's uncle," Ian reminded her. "Not his father."

"Yes, but—"

"But you think Alex didn't want a stupid compass," Ian finished smoothly. "You think he'd have been happier playing with a stuffed animal than learning how to assemble a needle, a cork, and a bowl of water. And you think I should give him a break once in awhile."

Jack almost laughed at his mock-solemnity. "Yeah. Well, I'm sort of protective of Alex. I guess it comes with the job."

"And I'm glad you feel that way," Ian said calmly. "Our house is unconventional, and sometimes Alex will need the things that you can give him—especially since I'm not always around. But Jack, I'm asking you not to question the way I raise him. I promise you, I have reasons."

Jack bit her lip. "What reasons?"

"It doesn't matter, Jack."

She sighed. "He's your son—um, your nephew, I mean. You can raise him however you want."

Ian seemed satisfied. He stepped back, but, like in her bedroom, he hesitated as though there were words he wanted to say. Finally, he just smiled at her with more warmth than she'd seen in him so far.

"Thank you, Jack."

And she knew he wasn't just referring to their current conversation—he was thanking her for taking the job, and for staying, and for caring so much about Alex that babysitting wasn't just a job anymore. He swept the yellow flowers off the table and placed them gently back into the bowl of water, and then he left, to do whatever it was he did when he was home.

Jack turned back toward the sink, and realized suddenly that she still had the black box in her hand. She opened it. Inside were two earrings, gold diamond-shapes hung with red tassels. On each diamond, there was a different Chinese symbol.

Someone had tucked a small note into the bottom of the box. Jack unfolded it.

_The Chinese symbols for Love and Home, written in black ink on rice paper—I thought you'd like them. _

There was no signature. Jack suspected that Ian hadn't wanted to attach his name to the words, and she couldn't understand why. The message hardly seemed offensive.

Then again, it hardly mattered. Jack lifted the earrings from the box, fastened home to one earlobe and love to the other, and returned to the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.

**Yay, you reached the end! Let me know what you thought, good or bad. Constructive criticism is my bread and butter. :D **

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed: Gold is power, swabloo, Jusmine, Lal Mirch, Silver Queen, SamandJake, Neptunian Diamond, Radioactive Bubblegum, Emmy-loo, highonDr.Pepper, vampassassin, Von, Nylah, ifisher, and Ariana Deralte. Like on my other story, there are a few too many to write on here, so I'll respond to everyone by private message...and I'm sorry if I can't respond right away. :( Tonight I have more internship nonsense to do...but I promise I will respond soon. Thanks! :)  
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	3. Hide and Seek

**(sigh of relief) This chapter took a long time to write. A very, very, very long time. It took a lot of writing and editing and deleting and swearing...(grin) Anyway, it's done. Hope you enjoy!**

**And, um, just for the record, I'm aware that I keep forgetting about this story and focusing on my other one. This update is long overdue--life always seems so unforgiving of fanfic responsibilities. :( But from now on, I'll try to take this story off the back burner and update much more quickly!  
**

**Disclaimer--Testing, one, two, three...Sam Winchester wears make-up. Sam Winchester cries his way through sex. Sam Winchester keeps a ruler by the bed and every morning when he wakes up...oh, and I don't own Alex Rider. :)**

In the darkness, the candle flame dipped and swooped.

Jack stared into the warm glow. Wax was dripping, agonizingly slow, down the side of the white candle—and she couldn't tear her eyes away. Hell, she could hardly keep her eyes open.

"I'll study tomorrow," she muttered, closing her textbook. "Honest to God, I will."

She blew out the candle, and immediately the darkness pressed against her eyes. Virtually blindfolded, hands outstretched, Jack took a few steps toward the bed—and suddenly a desk jumped out and shattered her kneecap. Or, at least, it tried to.

"Son of a—"

But the desk wasn't finished. As Jack veered sideways, the damn thing threw a chair at her, and suddenly her entire right side was throbbing. She hissed through clenched teeth, tossing out a few choice phrases that, hopefully, Ian couldn't overhear through his bedroom wall. Part of her recognized that desks weren't malicious, nor alive, and that she was simply exhausted to the point of delirium. But it helped to blame something other than herself.

Then—finally. Her bed. Sighing deeply, Jack rolled onto the mattress and pulled the covers up to her chin. For a moment, her eyes found the tiny glow-in-the-dark star stuck to the ceiling. Alex had given it to her; she would be lost in the dark without it.

"My North Star," Jack muttered, half-sarcastically, and closed her eyes.

Then she heard a scream from the end of the corridor.

Jack's eyes flew open. "ALEX!"

She rolled out of bed like a SAC pilot at the alarm, but she didn't get very far—the sheets tangled around her ankles and sent her crashing to the floorboards. She half-crawled, half-stumbled through the darkness and groped wildly for the door handle. But, of course, she needn't have bothered—the door swung open itself.

"You okay?" Ian said, staring down at her.

Jack blinked. His blue eyes were more intense than ever.

"It—it wasn't me," she managed. "It was Alex."

Ian was gone before she finished the second syllable—and then Alex screamed again.

"Oh, shit."

Jack hurried after Ian, disentangling herself from the sheets and hoping to God that Ian couldn't hear the frantic beating of her heart. A pink-glassed Moroccan lantern cast a low tint over the cream-carpeted corridor; Jack only caught a glimpse of Ian's hardened eyes and clenched jaw before he kicked open Alex's bedroom door and disappeared inside.

"Please, let Alex be okay," Jack whispered, broadcasting the prayer to whatever deity would listen—_and, _she added silently, _let Ian be okay, too._

She tiptoed through the darkness and poked her head into Alex's bedroom.

"NO!" Alex was screaming, thrashing around in his football sheets. "STOP IT!"

It took Jack a few moments to understand what she was seeing. Then, when words clicked with the picture, she leaned against the wall and gave a deep sigh of relief.

A nightmare. Alex was having a nightmare.

Ian had apparently reached the same conclusion. His muscles visibly relaxed, and he tucked something into the back of his waistband. Then he knelt beside his nephew's bed.

"Alex," he said, with quiet urgency. "Wake up, Alex. You're dreaming."

Jack stood on the other side of the bed and toyed with a strand of red hair, wishing her heart didn't feel like it was about to explode. This was the first time she'd ever seen Alex lose control. She decided that it wasn't something she'd like to see again.

"Wake up, Alex," Ian repeated, shaking him roughly. "Wake up—that's an order."

And then, miraculously, the boy sat up and opened his eyes.

"Ian?" he said, his voice high-pitched and hoarse at once.

"Jack, the light," Ian muttered.

Jack flicked the switch and watched with a pang as Alex squinted warily around the room, registering each object as though he'd never seen it before—a book lying open on the carpet, a white karate uniform thrown across the desk, a Chelsea football poster taped to the wall—

Alex paused as his eyes met Jack's. She smiled gently at him.

"Alright, Alex?" Ian said brusquely.

"Yeah." The boy blinked a few times in the light. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"What did you dream about?"

"I—nothing. I can't remember."

Ian looked seriously down at his nephew. "Nightmares can't hurt anyone, Alex, and I don't want you to give them power over you. Now, what were you dreaming about?"

Alex sighed. "A fox."

Ian and Jack exchanged startled glances. "A fox?" Jack repeated slowly. "What fox?"

"I dreamed a fox got Ian."

There was a note of fear in Alex's voice that Jack had never heard there before. Without thinking, she knelt beside him. She wanted to brush back his hair, but Ian was watching.

"Don't worry," she whispered, trying to ignore the blue-eyed disapproval burning into her back. "You're safe now, Alex. The fox will never get Ian, I promise."

Alex smiled wryly at her. "I had a bad dream, Jack. I'm not four years old."

Ian coughed—perhaps his throat was dry, or perhaps he didn't want his laugh to seem too obvious—and Jack cringed with the feeling of intense, permanent stupidity that only the Riders could trigger.

"Right." Ian ruffled Alex's hair and straightened up. "Good night, Alex."

He crossed the room, flicked out the light switch, and vanished through the doorway without another word.

Jack stared after him. "That's—that's it?"

Tired as she was, she just couldn't accept it. Alex had woken up in the middle of the night, screaming bloody murder, his mind probably swimming with full-color images of a fox ripping his uncle to shreds—and Ian simply walked away?

"Wait," Jack pleaded, following after him. "Ian—"

He was leaning patiently against the wall, just outside the door. As soon as Jack emerged, he closed Alex's bedroom door and turned toward her, eyebrows raised.

"This is your fault, you know. You and those damn fables."

Jack's eyes widened. "What?"

"The Fox and the Grapes. The Fox and the Goat. Those bedtime stories you're always reading to Alex."

His voice was unemotional, without a shred of accusation, but Jack could feel her face darkening to match her hair. "Aesop's fables are great for children," she said defensively. "They teach Alex to always do the right thing and not to trust too easily."

"No," Ian disagreed. "They teach him that a fox is going to eat me."

Jack squinted at him in the rose-tinted light and shook her head. "I'm too tired to detect sarcasm right now. Let's postpone this match until tomorrow, after I've had two cups of coffee."

Ian spared her with an almost-grin. "If that's what you want."

Jack shrugged. "I just want to get back to sleep."

"_Back _to sleep?"

"Yeah."

Ian raised an eyebrow at her, and Jack's face heated up. He knew. Somehow, he knew that she hadn't been sleeping, that she had only gotten halfway through her assigned reading, and that she was slowly going mad. He could see through her like a piece of glass.

"Take tomorrow off," Ian said finally. "Catch up on your coursework. I'll look after Alex."

Jack blinked. Perhaps he expected her to feel grateful, but she only felt surprised, and—and something else. "Aren't you supposed to go into the bank tomorrow?" she said carefully.

"I'll call in sick."

"That doesn't seem like something you'd normally do."

Ian only shrugged. "Good night, Jack."

He walked away. Jack watched him go, and suddenly her heart froze in her chest. Ian looked refreshingly casual in a white tank top and gray sweats, but Jack's eyes were drawn to a dark, metallic glint at the back of his waistband.

A pistol.

Jack didn't say anything. She turned stiffly away, slipped into her bedroom, and locked the door behind her. But three hours later, when the first rays of dawn crept through the curtains, Jack was still staring blankly at the star on the ceiling.

ARARAR

The next morning, Jack threw together an omelet in ten minutes and dropped it onto Ian's plate.

"Eat up," she said crisply. "You've looked like a skeleton ever since you got back from Kuwait. There's fresh fruit in the fridge, too."

Ian glanced down at the sloppy clump of egg and cheese on his plate. "Aren't you supposed to have the day off?" he asked slowly.

"You only said that because you thought you had to," Jack said, throwing a fork into his plate—it skittered across the glass and nearly bounced into his lap. "But this isn't the kind of job I can just take a break from. You'd starve without me."

Ian picked up his fork and gave the omelet a cautionary prod. "What's wrong, Jack?"

"Nothing's wrong," Jack said coolly.

He glanced up at her, faintly amused. "A blind man could see through your poker face."

"I don't play poker," Jack snapped. "Is Alex awake yet?"

"Of course. He's doing his morning reps."

"How thrilling," Jack drawled, sprinkling handfuls of blueberries into the batter.

"And yet you're less than thrilled."

Jack didn't look at him. "A normal seven-year-old boy does not need to practice his left jabs and right hooks every morning, Ian."

"Of course not," Ian agreed, swirling the black coffee in his thermos. "But I don't want Alex to be a normal seven-year-old boy."

"Why the hell not?"

Ian ignored her. After six months, he'd grown to understand the little nuances of Jack's moods—how her green eyes clouded when she was trying to appear stoic, how she read symbolism in his every word like a student analyzing a work of art, and how she pretended not to watch him in the reflection on the stove. He took a sip of coffee.

"Don't ignore me," Jack hissed, dropping her spatula onto the stove.

"I'm sorry. I thought that was a rhetorical question."

She turned to face him, her green eyes narrowed. "This isn't a joke."

"What isn't?"

"_This,_" Jack said fiercely.

Ian rubbed his eyes and forced a smile, with the air of a tired diplomat. "If you could begin by speaking in complete sentences, I would appreciate it."

"Last night," she snapped. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Better," Ian said slowly, staring at her, "but I'm still not clear as to what I've done wrong."

"You know," Jack snapped. "You know what you're hiding."

"I'm not hiding anything," Ian said calmly, without hesitation.

Jack almost believed him. His voice sounded the same as usual, and he wore his usual mask of clear blue eyes and a tolerant half-grin. But Jack had been living with Ian Rider for half a year. She had come to notice little things—like, for instance, how he watched her watching him in the reflection, and how he sounded the most collected when he had something to hide.

"You're lying," Jack said softly.

Before Ian could respond, Alex poked his puzzled blonde head through the kitchen doorway.

"Is something on fire?"

Jack gasped and spun around. "Shit!"

The pancakes had turned black. Frantic, she lifted the pan over the garbage and scraped the charred dough off the metal. Alex laughed, for a split second, and then ducked out before Jack could murder him.

"One of the conditions of your employment is that you don't set the house on fire," Ian said gravely.

"I just—"

"Go upstairs and get some work done, Jack. I'm not asking."

"But you and Alex—"

"—will probably survive without you," Ian said dryly.

She chewed on her lip. "I just—"

"Jack, please. Go upstairs, or I'll put out an advert for a new housekeeper."

An ultimatum. She couldn't argue with that. And part of her knew that Ian was right—she needed to catch up on her assignments. But another part of her, a secret part, would have rather seen Alex's smart little smile and Ian's slight nod of approval than see top marks on her final exam.

This job was dangerous, in more ways than one.

ARARAR

Jack's footsteps faded on the wooden staircase. In the kitchen, Alex looked from the burnt pancakes in the trash to Ian's unreadable expression.

"Jack's not leaving, is she?"

Ian stared at him, frankly shocked. "What do you think, Alex?"

"I don't know. You said something about a new advert."

"Negotiation tactics," Ian said dismissively. "Jack's not going anywhere."

"Right." Alex hesitated. "But she doesn't seem happy today."

"That doesn't mean she's not happy to be here."

"Right," the boy said, more doubtfully this time. "But she seems—angry."

Ian's expression flickered for a moment. "If she's angry, it's because of me. You don't have to worry about it."

"She's never seemed angry before. Not like this, at least."

Ian shrugged. "People can't hide their emotions forever, Alex."

"You can."

Of all the words that could've left Alex's lips, none would've surprised his uncle more. Ian didn't know what to say. He pulled a box of cereal out of the pantry, secretly wishing that he'd let Jack finish a new batch of pancakes before he sent her upstairs.

"You're right," he said finally. "Jack's angry. But she'll stay on with us. With you."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."

"Good." Alex plopped into a chair at the kitchen table and took a bite of Jack's ten-minute omelet. "Because I really like her."

ARARAR

Jack felt as though she'd gone into hiding.

She had spent all afternoon in her locked bedroom, thumbing through a textbook and a stack of papers, flinching guiltily whenever the floorboards creaked outside her door. She had nothing to hide, but she felt as though she did—felt, in fact, as though she was shirking her duties. But apparently Ian saw things differently. Apparently, he would rather have her wading through her studies than doing the job he'd hired her for.

"Kill me now," she muttered, massaging her temples.

Outside her window, the sky had darkened to twilight. Jack had been studying for ten hours, with a short break for lunch and another short break to bash her head against the wall.

Perhaps her room was too quiet. Yawning, trying to act as though she didn't care whether Ian saw her disheveled hair and bitten nails, she dragged her book bag downstairs. Alex was sitting on the white sofa, watching the evening news. Jack almost laughed.

Alex chose that moment to glance up at her and grin crookedly.

"I miss you today, Jack."

And then it hit her. She understood why she'd been feeling so off-color all day, and why she'd gotten so mad at Ian last night, and why she had come downstairs even though she'd spent all day hiding stubbornly from Ian Rider. And she understood what she had to do.

"I've missed you, too."

That night, after tucking Alex into bed and promising him an extra-special breakfast and an intense game of hide and seek tomorrow, she went straight to Ian's bedroom door. It was right next to hers, but she realized, in the split second after she knocked, that she'd never actually seen the inside.

The door swung open.

"Jack," Ian said.

_Be honest, _she reminded herself. _Tell him._

"We should talk," she said.

"We should," he agreed, stepping back. "Come inside."

Jack stepped inside, but didn't sit down.

The bedroom was simple and clean, like everything else in the house—a square black futon, white carpet, empty bedside tables, a post-modern blue armchair, and a few pictures on the walls. Jack had expected to find a museum of artifacts from Ian's travels, like the Japanese prints in the kitchen and the Moroccan lantern in the upstairs corridor, but his room was a blank canvas

"Just a moment," Ian said.

He sounded calm, but Jack couldn't help but notice how swiftly he crossed the room and closed his cupboard doors. She glanced reluctantly away and scanned the photographs. Two fair-haired boys, probably brothers, on a cliff by the ocean. A stunning blonde bride in the arms of a groom who looked remarkably like Ian Rider. Alex and Ian in front of the Notre Dame Cathedral. Alex looked just as he always did—reservedly cheerful—but Ian was grinning more naturally than Jack had ever seen him.

"You've been there?" Ian said, noticing her gaze.

Jack blinked. "Oh—yeah, I have. Last year."

"What'd you think?"

"I—I thought it was—" She closed her eyes briefly, remembering the delicate steeple and the baleful-looking gargoyles, the glittering panels of stained glass and, most of all, the dazzling rose window. "It was just—"

Ian smiled slightly. "—Too much for words," he finished.

Jack couldn't resist grinning back. "You feel that way about a lot of things, don't you?"

Then, mentally, she cursed herself. How the hell did Ian manage this? She had knocked on the door with full intention of steering the conversation, but now he had taken the lead and she was struggling to keep up.

"I have something to tell you," she said firmly, putting herself back in the driver's seat. "But first I need some answers."

"Then I suppose you should start with some questions."

"I was getting to that." Jack crossed her arms and took a deep breath. "I saw your pistol last night."

Ian nodded slowly. "I figured you had."

"Why do you have a pistol, Ian?"

"Self-defense," Ian said, shrugging. "It's not uncommon, and I'm sure you know a few people back in America with the same philosophy."

"Maybe, but we're not in America."

Ian sighed. "Jack—"

"The Firearms Act of 1920 required licensing for all firearms except shotguns," she rattled off, watching Ian closely for his reaction. "Shotguns were added to that list in 1953. Gun legislation tightened the controls in 1967 and especially in 1988, in wake of the Hungerford massacre." She paused. "And a few years ago, the Firearms Act of 1997 banned all private ownership of handguns in the UK."

Ian looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable.

"You've been doing your homework," he said finally, with the same crooked grin that Alex had given her earlier.

"This isn't a joke, Ian," Jack said fiercely, for the second time that day. "That pistol is illegal."

"It's not," Ian said, looking her in the eye. "It's not real, Jack."

"What?" Jack blinked. "But—you admitted that you have a pistol for self-defense."

"I do," Ian agreed, sliding open the drawer of his bedside table. "Here."

Jack gasped as he tossed the handgun to her—it gleamed in the air, colder and deadlier than the first time she'd seen it, and she just barely managed to catch it. Then, with the weapon in her hands, she gasped again.

"Plastic," Ian said, nodding.

He was telling the truth. Jack studied the handgun closely. Mostly black, with a white barrel and a double-action trigger, it was the most realistic toy she'd ever seen.

"Oh my God," Jack said slowing, letting out her breath. "I really thought—"

"I wouldn't break the law to own a gun," Ian said seriously. "I don't need to. A glimpse of this toy is enough to leverage a situation with any intruder, and that's what it might take to keep Alex safe." He paused. "To keep all of us safe."

Jack hesitated. Something still felt wrong, but she couldn't pinpoint exactly what. "I'm sorry for accusing you," she said finally. "I was—scared."

"Guns shouldn't be taken lightly," Ian agreed. "I'm glad you said something, Jack—I want you to feel completely safe here."

"I wasn't scared for myself," Jack said honestly. "I was scared for Alex. Last night, I—I couldn't stop picturing you bursting into Alex's bedroom with a pistol."

Ian didn't speak right away. He replaced the plastic gun in his bedside drawer and closed it tightly. Then he met Jack's eyes.

"When I put out an ad for a babysitter and housekeeper, I never expected to find someone like you."

She cringed and dropped into the blue armchair. "Trust me, I know. Living with me is like living with a red-haired emotional tornado—my whole family and my last two boyfriends have made that very clear." She smiled. "But I'm glad to help."

Ian leaned back thoughtfully. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but wasn't sure whether he should; for the first time in the six months that she'd known him, Jack saw uncertainty in Ian's blue eyes. Then his eyes cleared and he sat up briskly.

"Thank you, Jack. Did you have anything else to tell me?"

"Just two things." She hesitated. "First, I don't think you should be so hard on Alex."

Ian's eyes flickered, with annoyance this time. "We've been through this."

"I know," Jack said quickly. "He's your nephew; I just work here." She hesitated. "But—honestly, Ian, I don't _just _work here anymore."

"And you clearly didn't like the way I handled his nightmare," Ian said matter-of-factly.

"Well, you hardly even talked to him about it," Jack said, biting his lip. "I mean, a kid dreaming that his guardian's being mauled to death by a fox—that's dark stuff, Ian. Why the hell's Alex dreaming about that?"

"I didn't want to validate his fear by dwelling on it," Ian said simply.

"Okay, that's fine, but ignoring the fear won't make it go away."

Ian opened his mouth to respond, but then something seemed to cross his mind, and he paused. A diamond-shaped clock ticked into the silence. Jack lowered her eyes to the snow-colored carpet, because she knew she'd never be able to infer anything from Ian's face.

"I'll never be the father figure that you think Alex needs," Ian said suddenly, swallowing hard. "Sometimes I wish I could be."

Jack looked up at him, startled. "Ian—real emotion?" she joked.

He didn't smile. "Alex said something like that today."

Then he stood up, just as calm and collected as always. "I appreciate your concern, Jack, but my methods won't change." He paused. "Besides, I think the best person to talk to Alex about his nightmare would be you."

"I was planning to," Jack said truthfully.

"And the second thing?"

Jack blinked. "Huh?"

"Earlier, you said you had two more things to tell me. That was the first thing. What's the second?"

"Oh! Right." Jack grinned. "Honestly, Ian, I don't know why I was so nervous, because you can't change my mind. Next semester, I'm only going to be a part-time student."

It had taken her a lot of thought and a full day of isolation in her bedroom to come to the decision, but now that she said the words aloud, they felt right. She said goodnight to Ian and almost-flounced out into the corridor, feeling better than she had all day.

"Thank you," Ian said quietly, closing his door.

Jack wasn't sure if he'd intended for her to hear him, but that made it even sweeter.

She wouldn't realize for nearly another week that the pistol she'd seen at the back of Ian's waistband didn't have a white barrel.

ARARAR

Jack fell asleep quickly that night, ignoring the cruel-spirited textbook on her desk, and didn't wake up until three a.m. Hazily, she rolled onto her side and tried to slip back into the folds of her pleasant dream.

Then she heard footsteps in the corridor.

Shit. Not again.

Jack rolled out of bed, much more carefully this time, and navigated through the darkness with the glow-in-the-dark star as her guide. She knew the footsteps could be harmless--Ian going downstairs for a midnight snack, or Alex walking to the bathroom--but Jack's mind always jumped to the worst conclusions

Just as her hand found the cool doorknob, Jack heard a creak and a violent thud.

"Alex!"

She wrenched open the door, dove into the corridor, and lifted _A Survey of Contract Law_ over her head, fully prepared to use the thousand-page textbook as a bludgeon.

"Jack?"

She squinted into the dull rose-tinted light.

"Alex," she repeated, much more quietly

He was standing in front of the hall cupboard, a mass of pillows and blankets around him. One of the shelves seemed to have collapsed while the seven-year-old climbed up to reach the top.

"What are you doing?" Jack whispered, stepping closer.

"I was getting a pillow."

"Why?"

"To hide from the fox."

Jack spent the rest of the night curled with a blanket on Alex's bedroom floor, watching a single candle flame and waiting for Alex to drift off. An hour later, when his breathing finally evened out and the tenseness faded from his mouth, Jack sat up, brushed back the boy's tousled hair, and blew out the candle.

**The gun laws and whatnot? Yeah, um...thank God for google! Actually, I was surprised to find out about such strict gun control laws in the UK...you learn something new every day, I guess. Anyway, thanks for reading! Please review--I'm helpless without feedback. :)  
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**I owe everybody who has reviewed a MILLION thanks and an extra-large cookie...first of all, because you give excellent comments, and secondly, because I realized that I haven't responded to everyone yet. (sheepish grin) I'm really, really, really sorry. Don't hate meee!  
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**Now, thanks to all who reviewed chapter two: Nylah, swabloo, rid3r chick, Alyzabeth Tyler, Jusmine, Von, ifisher, Lake25, vampassassin, Jelly1029, Emmy-loo, Neptunian Diamond, Gold is power, rndmprsnlily, xLzR, kurleyhawk2, and Neptune's Violin. Muchas gracias!! And seriously, I promise I'll respond. :)  
**


	4. Make a Wish

**Well...first of all, this chapter wasn't supposed to be very exciting at all. I set out to write a quiet birthday, with some thoughtful Jack, cute/angsty Alex, and a characteristically absent Ian. But--um--that didn't happen. (grin) This chapter has more action than all the rest of this story combined. It's also quite long. I really didn't mean to rack up such a high word count, but the plot had a mind of its own. I really hope you like this one, because it was so much fun to write! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Alex Rider--apparently, birthday wishes don't always come true.**

"Happy birthday, Alex!" Jack Starbright sang, throwing handfuls of confetti in the air and plastering a big smile on her face.

In the doorway, Alex Rider dropped his book bag and looked around, his brown eyes widening. The living room was almost unrecognizable. Shiny helium balloons hovered near the ceiling; crepe paper looped its way from one side of the house to the other; a 'Happy 8th Birthday' banner sparkled with colorful construction paper and an excessive quantity of glitter. But despite the decorations, or perhaps because of them, Alex's eyes clouded over.

Slowly, Jack's smile faded.

"It, um—it is your birthday today, isn't it, kiddo?"

"Yeah," Alex said, removing his gloves. His voice sounded small. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal?" Jack squinted at him. "Is that you talking, or Ian?"

Alex shrugged, tossed aside his snow-dusted coat, and dropped down onto the couch. A few seconds later, the TV was on and he was flipping listlessly through the channels, not really seeing any of them. Jack sighed and hung Alex's coat on the wooden hook near the door. Outside, a light snow powdered the sidewalks; Alex's lonely footprints were already beginning to disappear.

"Alex?" she said tentatively.

He didn't answer. The dejected pile of confetti on the carpet looked like the ashes left over from a cremated birthday cake. Jack stared at them for a long moment. Then, abruptly, she jumped in front of the television and stabbed the 'off' button.

"That's enough, Alex."

He glanced at her. "What's enough?"

"The sadness. The pouting. I refuse to allow you to pout on your birthday."

"I'm not pouting," Alex said, with glimmering puppy-dog eyes.

"You are too," Jack said stubbornly.

"Are not."

"Are too."

"Are not!"

"Are t—"

Jack broke off, startled, as a reluctant grin spread across Alex's face. He _had_ been pouting, of course. Intentionally. The kid had a sharper sense of irony than most of the guys Jack had ever met, including the ones who acted cool and prided themselves on their so-called dry wit. Alex didn't really pride himself on anything. He didn't need to.

"Come on," she said, grabbing Alex's hand and pulling him to his feet. "I don't care what your excuses are. I spent much longer than my usual ten-minute limit on your birthday cake. That means you're required to eat it. And I want you to make a wish."

The little boy grinned, more easily this time, and allowed Jack to drag him through the haze of balloons and crepe paper. When he reached the kitchen, however, he froze in the doorway and blinked a few times.

"Um, Jack—did the oven explode?"

Jack looked around the kitchen, wincing slightly. "It's that bad, huh?"

A bag of flour had spilled across the counter, and cocoa powder had sprinkled like snow on the linoleum floor; drizzles of bright blue frosting were caked like hardened mud on the table, and old cookbooks littered the rest of the available space. Worse yet, the white curtains over the overflowing sink had somehow been charred black around the edges.

"Hurricane Jack," Alex said solemnly.

"There wasn't enough time to clean up," Jack said airily, with a wave of her hand.

"Really?" Alex said, looking around.

Jack smirked. "You've got a smart mouth, you know that? Maybe I'll just eat the whole cake myself."

Alex shrugged, his voice suddenly flat again. "Okay."

He got up to pour himself a glass of orange juice. Jack sighed and turned her back to him, under the pretense of searching the drawers for birthday candles. She couldn't understand why Alex seemed so miserable. Perhaps he'd had a bad experience in the past—Jack made a mental note to ask Ian about it as soon as the man returned home.

Of course, she had no idea when Ian would actually return. He had disappeared nearly three weeks ago, in the middle of the night, and the note he left on the fridge had been far from adequate:

_Thought about waking you up last night, Jack, but didn't want to disturb your first decent sleep in months. I've been called away on another business trip. Not sure how long this one will last. Probably a few weeks, at least. Alex's birthday is January 13__th__—he likes chocolate cake. I don't know what I would do without you._

At first, she couldn't believe Ian's nerve. A tiny note scribbled on a blue post-it, with fragmented sentences and not even a single thank-you—the arrogance was mind-blowing. But then Jack reread the last line.

_I don't know what I would do without you._

Somehow, those words made her feel a little better.

"Ian called yesterday," she said aloud, rummaging around for the candles. "He's supposed to get home soon. Tonight or tomorrow."

"I know," Alex said.

Jack frowned. "How?"

Alex shrugged. "I picked up the downstairs extension. It was an accident."

Jack cast an amused glance over her shoulder. "An accident?"

The boy hesitated.

"Come on, Alex. It's just me. I won't get mad."

The boy shrugged, and then grinned as though there was nothing more thrilling than getting caught with his hand on the cookie jar. "I could tell it was Ian on the phone, and I wanted to know what you guys were talking about."

"You were spying on me," Jack surmised.

Alex nodded meekly. "You said you wouldn't get mad."

"Do you listen to all my phone calls?"

He shrugged again. "Maybe."

Jack laughed, her hand closing around the pack of colorful birthday candles she had bought last week. "Honestly, I'm tempted to do the same thing whenever your uncle gets a call from work." She paused. "If you want, we can wait for him to get home before we start with cake and presents."

The boy shrugged again. "I don't know. Has he—has he called yet today?"

Jack shook her head. "No, Alex." She had learned very quickly not to lie to him.

"I would hate to have his job," Alex muttered, drinking deeply from his orange juice.

Jack nodded in agreement—overseas finance manager hardly seemed like the most enjoyable job around, or the most convenient—but with every tick of the clock, a seed of worry grew inside of her. All Jack really knew about Ian's job was what he had told her. How much could she really trust?

She had just opened the fridge and reached for the chocolate, blue-frosted birthday cake when she heard a car pull into the driveway.

"Ian's home," she said, trying not to sound as relieved as she felt.

Alex shrugged and drank the rest of his juice.

"You can smile," Jack added, with a sudden rush of fondness toward Alex.

He didn't seem to hear her. He was listening, a faint frown pinching his face, and when the rumbling engine died in the driveway, his whole body stiffened.

"What's wrong?" Jack asked, frowning.

Then she heard the doorknob turn—locked—and Alex heard the delicate scratch of metal. He jumped to his feet.

"Come on," he whispered, snatching Jack by the wrist.

"Wha—"

"Come ON, Jack," Alex hissed again, and he pulled her to the sliding wooden door that led from the kitchen to basement stairway. He and Jack flew down those steps, Alex taking them two at a time, Jack struggling to keep up. It was amazing how someone so small could move so fast.

"Alex, what are you doing?" Jack repeated, trying not to laugh. "Ian just got home. Don't you want to—"

"That's not Ian," Alex said.

"What?"

"That's not Ian."

Jack blinked, and a brief chill passed down her spine. She shook it off. "I know your uncle's been gone for awhile, Alex, but I think you'll still recognize him. And he'll still be thrilled to wish you a happy birthday. Come on, let's go back upstairs—"

"Did you lock the back door?"

"What?"

"Did you lock," Alex whispered fiercely, "the back door?"

When Jack didn't answer—she couldn't answer, because she honestly couldn't remember—Alex glanced toward the stairs as though he expected the fox from his nightmares to slink out of the shadows, its pointed teeth bared. Then the boy sprinted across the dark basement and crawled under the snooker table. Jack leaned over, squinting at him—he had grabbed a cordless phone from the corner and quickly dialed a number.

"Alex?" Jack got down on her hands and knees on the cream carpet and stared at him. "What—who are you calling? Why is there a phone hooked up under there?"

Alex ignored her; he was whispering into the mouthpiece, urgent words Jack couldn't quite make out. Upstairs, she heard the back door slam open—Alex's face turned white.

"It's probably Ian," Jack said convincingly. "He probably just forgot his front door key."

Alex replaced the phone in its cradle and shook his head. "Ian doesn't forget things."

Jack shivered again—it was cold in the basement. She took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Alex was overreacting. He was imagining danger where there was none. Jack would have to tell him the story of the boy who cried wolf.

Then, with her hand on Alex's shoulder, she froze. There was a voice upstairs. It was low, and harsh, and decidedly not Ian's.

"Oh my God," Jack whispered, feeling dizzy.

There came a crash and a rough shout, the words barely distinguishable:

"Come out, boy! We won't hurt you—come out and play!"

"I told you," Alex said, with just a hint of childish smugness.

Jack stared at him, shocked. Then she crawled under the snooker table and reached for the phone with a shaking hand.

"I already called," Alex whispered.

"Who?"

"Ian."

Jack stared at him again. "Alex, we have to call the police!"

She punched 911; Alex snatched the phone impatiently, turned it off and on again, and dialed 999. Jack would've flushed if she hadn't been so tense. After one ring, a female operator came on the line.

"Emergency services. What—"

"I need you to send someone right away," Jack whispered, very fast. "I'm in the basement with my—with an eight-year-old boy, and there's a man breaking in, a stranger, and he's—"

"What's your name?" the operator interrupted, sounding very calm.

"Jack."

"I need you to take a deep breath, Jack. What is your address?"

Jack rattled it off breathlessly—it was to the credit of the operator that she understood a single word that Jack was saying.

"That's in Chelsea, London?"

"Yes," Jack hissed impatiently. "Please hurry. He's inside the house."

"The stranger?"

"Yes. He's inside, and I don't know what—"

"Listen to me, Jack. Take a deep breath. Do you know how many intruders there are?"

"No. Only one voice so far."

"Does it sound like he's ransacking your house?"

"I—well, maybe. I heard something break upstairs."

"Okay, Jack. I want you to get inside the nearest room, as quietly as possible. Lock and barricade the door. Keep the boy calm and quiet."

"I—I don't know." Jack looked at Alex, who had scooted into the corner, frozen like an ivory statue. They both jumped at a loud thud from upstairs, and then Jack closed her eyes briefly. "I think we have to get out of here."

The operator's voice turned sharp. "Help is on the way, Jack. Don't try to run. Chances are good that this burglar doesn't want to interact with you. He probably doesn't even know you're there. He only wants to find your valuables and get out."

Jack shook her head, blinking back tears. "I—I don't think it's a burglar." The man's chilling words echoed in her head—_come out and play. _"I think he wants to hurt us."

"Don't say that, Jack. It is imperative that you don't panic the boy."

Jack glanced at Alex, whose tense expression hadn't flickered. "Ma'am, Alex may be eight years old, but I think he's smart enough to know that this man isn't just stopping by for tea and crumpets."

"Listen to me, Jack. Close your eyes and breathe. The worst thing you can do right now is—"

Jack's eyes flew open. Upstairs, only meters away from the door between the kitchen and the basement, she and Alex heard the thud of a pantry door. Jack dropped the phone, and Alex grabbed her hand, and they both scrambled out from under the snooker table.

"The laundry room," Alex whispered.

He and Jack sprinted across the basement, clutching hands, and dove through the open door into the laundry room. Jack closed the door behind them as quietly as possible.

"I dropped the phone," she whispered, an afterthought.

"It's okay," Alex said, his eyes wide and dark. "The phone's not a very good weapon."

Jack scanned the laundry room. There was a cherry-wood dresser, an ironing board, a hamper of dirty clothes, a metal filing cabinet, a wooden chair, and a stainless steel washer and dryer against the far wall. But more importantly, above the washer and dryer, there were three rectangles of dusty glass. Windows.

Jack's mind moved very fast.

"We have to block the door."

Immediately, Alex dropped her cold, sweaty hand and wedged himself between the dresser and the wall. Jack grabbed the other side of the dresser, and she and Alex pushed and pulled with all of their strength.

"It's too heavy," Alex said.

"No," Jack gasped, coming around to his side and trying to push. "Keep trying."

"The iron," Alex said suddenly.

Jack pushed as hard as she could—the dresser shifted about a millimeter. "What?"

"Heat up the iron. We need something—"

The words fell into place, and Jack understood. With a cry of frustration, she abandoned the dresser, darted to the ironing board, and plugged the iron into the outlet. Then she pulled Alex across the room.

"Come on," she said, trying to sound calm and authoritative. "Out the window."

"No," Alex said immediately. "Ian said we have to stay put."

Jack heard a thud in the kitchen, followed by two indistinguishable male voices, and her heart pounded like a tribal drum. If the intruders—plural, now—didn't kill her, a heart attack probably would.

"Alex," she hissed, "these men must have seen your footprints in the snow. They won't stop looking for you. What if they catch us down here?"

"What if they catch us outside?" Alex retorted, his eyes narrowing.

"They won't." Jack climbed on top of the washing machine and jiggled the window until it slid open. A rush of cold air and snowflakes hit her in the face. "You have to go, Alex."

Alex shook his head stubbornly. "No. Ian said—"

Then he froze. From the top of the stairs, he and Jack both heard the screech of wood. The sliding door between the kitchen and the stairwell had been pulled open.

"What did Ian say?" Jack whispered.

"He said not to go outside." But Alex was beginning to sound doubtful.

Heavy footsteps descended on the staircase. The intruders were coming. Frantic, Jack grabbed the wooden chair from the corner and wedged it beneath the door handle. Then she pushed the window open all the way. Her green eyes had turned to steel.

"Give me your shoes."

Wordlessly, Alex obeyed. Jack clambered up onto the washing machine, reached out the open window to mark Alex's footprints in the snow, and tossed his shoes a distance away. Then she jumped back to the floor.

"Get inside the dryer."

Alex understood Jack's plan, but he didn't like it. "Jack—"

"COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE!" The air vibrated with the intruder's harsh voice, wild and uncontrolled and yet eerily deliberate. An instant later, the door handle turned. The chair rocked beneath the door handle. Something heavy slammed against the wood.

"Hurry, Alex!" Jack shouted, so loudly that she thought her throat might tear. "Climb out the window!'

She held open the dryer door and motioned frantically. Alex looked miserable, but there was no time to argue. He crawled inside the tumble dryer, crossed his legs, and tucked in his arms and shoulders. It was a tight fit, but he still had enough room to sit up straight and move his arms.

"I'm going to close the door," Jack whispered. "Try to open it."

She closed the metal door and waited, her heart racing, while the wooden door to the laundry room rocked on its hinges. A moment later, the dryer door swung open.

"It's easy," Alex whispered, his face white.

Jack forced a smile. "Good. Don't forget to breathe."

She closed the dryer door again, and then she turned to face the door. Alex was safe. She had to keep telling herself that. Alex would be okay. The wooden door creaked and groaned, struggling against its hinges. Then the chair beneath the door handle splintered and fell in pieces.

"Run, Alex!" Jack shouted clearly. "Go get help!" She unplugged the hot iron and held it up.

Jack had always wondered if she would have the guts and the resourcefulness to save herself in a dangerous situation—to drive a nail file into someone's eye, for example, or to slice the carotid artery with the sharp edge of her house key. She felt squeamish just thinking about it. But when the door swung open, revealing a tan-skinned man with coal-dark eyes beneath his balaclava, Jack didn't hesitate. She ran forward and pushed the iron, hard, against the man's chest.

"AHHHHHHGH!"

The scream was raw and enraged. The man dropped his gun and grabbed Jack's hands, forcing the iron away from him. Jack kept her grip and swung the iron sideways, and the metal connected with the man's right hand. He cursed violently in a language Jack didn't recognize and backed away.

"Get out," Jack hissed, "of my house."

Beneath the black balaclava, Jack thought she saw the man's lip curl. Then, before she could move, he lunged for the fallen gun.

"NO!" Jack brandished the iron again, but this time the man ignored the weapon and struck out at her face. His fist hit the side of her head and sent her tumbling into the ironing board. The man stood over her, the gun held shakily in his red, blistered hand

"Where's the boy?" he demanded, his English disjointed and guttural.

Jack just stared up at him, trembling, trying not to cry. At least Alex was safe. At least—

"Alex!" she gasped.

A moment later, the laundry hamper came down over the gunman's head. Alex had grabbed the hamper, climbed on top of the dresser, and jumped so that his entire body weight held the hamper over the man's head. The man squeezed off a blind shot, and Jack screamed. Luckily, the bullet cracked into the wall a few feet off-target.

The man shouted in anger and wrenched the laundry basket off his head. Then he turned to look for Alex.

What he got, instead, was a scalding blow to the side of his face. He dropped like a stone.

"Alex, I told you to stay in the dryer," Jack said, fighting hysteria.

"You never said that," Alex said, getting slowly to his feet.

The man in the balaclava had collapsed to the tile floor, unmoving. Jack kicked the gun beneath the dresser, wishing a moment later that she had kept it. Then she grabbed Alex's hand tightly.

"You're okay?"

He nodded, breathing fast. "Yeah."

"You're sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. I'm okay, Jack."

Jack's whole body felt wired. Adrenaline, probably. She didn't want to release Alex's cold hand, and he didn't seem to want to let go, either, but she had to get help. There was still another intruder somewhere.

"I'm going to check if the coast is clear," she whispered, motioning to the open window. "Then we can both run next door."

Alex shook his head urgently. "Jack, don't. Ian said we're not supposed to—"

But Jack had already climbed on top of the washing machine. She reached through the window, grabbed the outer edges, and pulled herself up onto the snow-covered grass. Her hips nearly got caught in the window frame, but she wriggled carefully through.

The neighborhood was dark and silent, as though someone had pressed the mute button on the world. Alex's trainers rested ten feet away, beside the snow-frosted brick of the house next door. Jack heard a faint siren in the distance, and exhaled deeply, her breath fogging the air. Then she turned toward the street.

"We wanted the boy," the man said, in the same guttural English as his partner, "but you'll do."

He wore a balaclava and a dark coat, and he held a much bigger gun than the pistol Jack had seen tucked into Ian's waistband. She froze, staring into the cold barrel of the gun, wondering if the bullet would hit before she heard the sound. She wanted to make a wish--perhaps the gun wouldn't fire, or perhaps there wouldn't be any pain--but there wasn't a single star in the sky.

What happened next, Jack would replay for the next few days, and weeks, and sleepless nights. Through her haze of panic, she saw a faint shadow of movement behind the gunman's head. She looked up, trembling.

"Here," Ian said sharply.

The gunman spun around, all thoughts of the red-haired American girl forgotten. But before the man could level his weapon, Ian had swept his feet and grabbed both his wrists, forcing the barrel of the gun skyward. Jack couldn't breathe. She felt as though she was suspended underwater, unable to swim, watching a knife slice through the current. The gunman fired two shots to the darkening sky, and Jack bit her cheek to keep from screaming again. Then Ian twisted the man's arm down and tried to elbow him in the face, lightning-fast. The man seemed to have blocked the strike, and then he landed his own—Jack couldn't think fast enough to keep up. All she knew was that, after a haze of blows that lasted barely three seconds, the attacker lay on his back in the snow, panting, staring up at his own weapon.

"Where's Alex?" Ian said, his voice tight and controlled.

Jack stared at him. His face was blank, his muscles tense, his grip on the gun steady and accurate. And those _eyes—_

"Jack," Ian repeated sharply, without taking his eyes off the fallen gunman. "Where's Alex?"

"In the basement," she croaked finally.

"He's okay?"

Jack drew a deep breath. "Yes. He's fine."

It was as though Ian had been a puppet, frozen in time, held taut and motionless by the cruel puppeteer, and Jack's words had cut the strings. Ian visibly relaxed. He took a deep breath to match Jack's, and then he cracked the gun against the attacker's temple.

"I knocked him unconscious during the struggle," he said, looking to Jack for approval.

She nodded mutely. The gunman's eyes were closed. He lay there, spread-eagled, like a man who had started a snow angel and forgotten how to finish.

ARARAR

Nearly an hour later, after the wailing sirens and the flashing red lights and the grim-faced police officers had faded back into the night, Ian joined the pale-faced Jack and Alex at the kitchen table. For a long moment, no one spoke. Alex scooted his chair closer to Ian. Jack stared at the rim of her cup of coffee and tried to calm down enough to drink it. Ian rubbed his eyes.

"Alex," he said quietly, "are you sure you're okay?"

His voice was flatter than Jack had ever heard it. No amusement, no edge, not even a flicker of emotion. She lowered her head and took a sip of the steaming coffee. It burned her tongue, but she hardly felt it.

"I'm fine," Alex said, for about the thousandth time. "What did those men want with us?"

Ian sighed. "They were burglars, Alex. Criminals. They chose to break the law. They'll be punished for it, and they'll never try to hurt anyone again. I wish I had a better answer."

"So do I," Jack muttered.

Ian looked sharply at her. "Not everything has an explanation, Jack."

"Maybe not," Jack said lightly, the mug shaking in her hand, "but that doesn't mean I can't wonder."

"It's over now," Ian said brusquely. "There's nothing to wonder about."

They glared at each other, a long silence broken only by the ticking of the clock and Alex's curious stare. Jack's green eyes were blazing, and Ian's blue eyes were icy—neither dared blink.

Then the phone rang.

"Aren't you going to get that?" Jack said, folding her arms.

Reluctantly, Ian picked up the phone and disappeared into the living room, his face impassive. Jack and Alex stared at each other across the kitchen table, questioning. Then, at the same moment, they hurried across the kitchen and pressed their ears against the wall.

"Yes," Ian was saying, his voice very flat. "The police were here."

A brief pause. Jack glanced sideways at Alex, who was listening intently. Jack was reminded irresistibly of her first day of work, when she had eavesdropped on Ian's phone conversation and convinced herself that Alex was a little French boy.

"Don't worry, Miss Hargrove," Ian said impatiently. "Everything's fine."

Jack sighed, disappointed. Clementine Hargrove was the eccentric thirty-something woman who lived next door, taking care of three cats and knitting constantly. Jack had spoken to her perhaps twice. She and Alex returned to their seats and waited in silence, Alex tapping a rhythm on the tabletop and Jack staring blankly out the window at the dark house next door.

Five minutes later, Ian returned to the kitchen.

"Sorry," he said, hanging up the phone.

It was the first time Jack had heard him apologize for anything—and somehow, she thought he was apologizing for more than a nosy neighbor's phone call.

"It's okay," she said.

Ian stood at the kitchen counter, absently turning over a package of colorful candles in his hands. "Walk me through what happened tonight, Alex."

Alex had already told the story several times, but he spoke without hesitation. "Jack and I heard a car pull into the driveway. The engine turned off, and I remembered that you left your car at home and took a taxi to the airport, so I knew it couldn't be you in the driveway. Then I heard the scratching sound you told me to look out for—"

"Someone trying to pick the lock," Ian said, nodding.

"—So Jack and I ran to the basement to hide. I used the emergency phone under the snooker table to call you, and you told me stay put and that you'd be there soon, and then Jack called the police."

Ian frowned. "That's what worries me."

"I wasn't supposed to call the police?" Jack said, baffled.

"No." Ian looked sternly at his nephew. "We agreed on an emergency plan, Alex. If you suspect an intruder, you're supposed to call the police first, and then me. What if my flight hadn't landed yet? What if I couldn't get here in time?"

For the first time that night, Alex's face tinged with color. He shrugged. "I'm sorry."

"Never mind." Ian sighed. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but finally he shrugged. "You did very well."

Alex stood up and turned away, his eyes downcast. "I'm going to get ready for bed."

Ian nodded and ruffled Alex's blonde hair. Then, with such a sudden movement that even Ian seemed surprised, he pulled his nephew to him and hugged him tightly. Jack suddenly felt as though she was intruding. She looked down and stirred her coffee.

"Good night," Alex said finally, and hurried upstairs.

After that, the house was silent for a long time. Alex brushed his teeth, changed into his pajamas, and crawled into bed. Jack tucked him in and hugged him, promising that everything would be okay. He was fine, probably less shaken that she was, but she just didn't want to let go. Ian made another phone call downstairs, but by the time Jack took a hot shower and returned to the kitchen in her pink bathrobe, Ian was just standing at the window, staring at his own reflection.

The clock ticked steadily. Jack poured herself another cup of coffee.

"You won't be able to sleep," Ian said, referring to the caffeine.

Jack smiled tightly. "I won't be able to sleep anyway."

She added sugar and took a sip. Ian sat at the table, as pale as Alex had been, and ironed his face with his hands.

"Ian," Jack said finally, "what did those men want with us?"

"They wanted to hurt you, Jack," Ian said, meeting her gaze. "They were low lives looking for an easy target. They must have scouted the house and seen that you and Alex were home alone." He smiled wryly. "You were hardly the easy target that they expected."

"Is that the truth?"

"Of course."

Jack studied his blue eyes as intently as she could, but he wasn't showing anything that he didn't want her to see.

"How the hell did you do that?" she said finally.

"Do what?"

"Take down the gunman. It was amazing."

Ian smiled again, but the bruises beneath his eyes made the smile seem dark. "I've been a black belt since I was a teenager, Jack. Why do you think I enrolled Alex in karate lessons? I'm a firm believer in the importance of self-defense."

"It came in handy today," Jack said, her voice hollow. "I was dead."

Ian's expression quickly turned serious. "You were amazing, Jack. You _are_ amazing. There aren't enough words in any language to express my gratitude." He stood up. "I'll have your last cheque for you tomorrow morning, of course. I'm sure Alex will—"

"Hold on." Jack shot to her feet. "My last cheque? You're firing me?"

Ian blinked. "I—no. I assumed you were going to quit."

"Why the hell would I do that?"

For the first time since he'd arrived home, Ian's eyes flickered with their usual sarcasm. "Well, the two armed intruders come to mind. Not to mention the furious glances you keep shooting my way when you think I'm not looking."

Jack blushed sheepishly. "More annoyed than furious, I think."

"Why are you annoyed?"

"I suspect that you're hiding something from me. Some secret."

Ian's eyes sparked with amusement. "Are you staying, or not?"

Jack grinned. "At this point, it would take a few more guns and a restraining order to keep me away from Alex."

His disarming half-smile made her heart jump. "That's the most comforting and unsettling thing I've ever heard."

Soon after, he said good night and went up to bed. Jack stayed in the kitchen, scrubbing the counters clean, trying to convince herself that a man in a balaclava wasn't lurking just past the dark window.

She sighed and opened the fridge, hoping that a glass of milk would calm her nerves.

On the top shelf, with shocking blue frosting and white letters that had sagged over the past few hours, was Alex's birthday cake. In the same rush of surprise, she remembered why the kitchen was so messy and realized that Ian had never wished his nephew a happy birthday.

She looked up at the wall clock. It was twelve-oh-one.

**Whew. So...what have we learned? 1) There were a few loose ends during Ian's latest mission--and they followed him home. 2) Children shouldn't play in dryers (PLEASE don't try this at home). 3) Any attempts to follow a chapter outline will only end in frustration. **

**(grin) Thank you for reading! The next chapter won't be quite so long. Let me know what you thought, good or bad--I have chocolate cake for all reviewers! :D  
**

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed last time: ifisher, swabloo, vampassassin, Illusjon, Von, Jusmine, jennie, Nylah, Mad Mogg, Aquanova, Neptune's Violin, Jelly1029, Buchworm13, Gold is power, tati1, keatlin, AssortedJellyBeans, and highonDr.Pepper. Your feedback keeps me going more effectively than any amount of caffeine. :)  
**


	5. Under God

**Oh dear... (hides)**

**Okay, the answers to some FAQs: Yes, I have been MIA for more than a month (and that's a lenient estimate). Yes, those of you who read my other story have been waiting even longer. But don't hate meeeee! :( I have numerous excuses that all boil down to one thing: real life. More on that lovely subject when I update Falls the Shadow (which should be coming soon, in case anybody still remembers it exists). **

**(rueful grin)**** For now, I have a peace offering: this chapter! The idea struck me on September 11th, but I didn't actually get around to writing it until a few days ago. **

**One little AN: I know it was implied somewhere that Alex was born in 1980-something, as far as I remember, but there are some discrepancies with that timeline. Alex is always 14 no matter what the year, so, for the purposes of this story, I decided to make him 14 in 2007. This would make him 8 in 2001.**

**Enjoy! :D**

Jack shouldn't have been surprised when Ian stepped out of his silver BMW with a dark bruise beneath one eye and his right arm in a sling. In fact, she wasn't. She folded her arms and stepped out onto the porch.

"Ian, for the love of God."

He approached the house—carrying, as usual, a plain briefcase and no travel bag—and met her eyes with a slightly ironic smile. "God? I didn't think you had faith in anything except coffee and eighties rock music."

Jack ignored him. "Your arm."

Ian shrugged, slipping smoothly past her and into the house. "My own fault," he said, removing his jacket carefully over the arm sling.

Jack bit her lip, hard, as she followed him into the kitchen. "Let me guess," she said. "You arm-wrestled with the financial consultant of Lebanon over whether he should round up or down on the last figure of the budget."

"Close," Ian said dryly. "There were some national secrets and a Russian sniper rifle involved, too."

He sat down at the kitchen table, opened his laptop, and disappeared behind it. Jack's green eyes smoldered. She glanced quickly at the wall clock. It was about one forty p.m.; Alex wouldn't be home from school for more than an hour.

"Ian," she said slowly.

"How was Alex?" he asked, as his fingers clicked on the keyboard.

Jack stared defiantly at him.

"Jack," Ian said, with slight warning in his voice.

"Alex was fine," Jack said shortly. "As usual.'

"He's at school?"

"Yes. He'll be staying after for football." She paused. "I went to his first game. He kept glancing out into the stands."

"How'd he play?"

"He's the best on the team," Jack said simply. Then she hesitated. "I think—I think he kept checking the crowd to see if you were there."

Ian's expression didn't flicker. "Alex knew I was out of town. He didn't expect me to be there."

"And that's the worst part of it," Jack said frankly.

Ian glanced up, a spark of something like amusement in his blue eyes. "Jack, correct me if I'm wrong, but don't we go through this same routine every time I come home from a conference?"

Jack flushed slightly. "Not _every_ time."

"Really." Ian ticked off the past few conferences on his fingers. "After Beijing, you decided that I don't show enough affection for Alex. Post-Sudan, you decided I must be a fugitive or a high-profile mob boss, because I don't tell you every detail of my business conferences. And now, apparently, I'm damned to the depths of hell because I missed Alex's football game." A wry half-smile. "I'm looking forward to the day when you'll realize that, based on existential evidence and witnesses' testimonies, I really don't exist at all."

Jack stared at him, feeling as though she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere. "I—this isn't a joke, Ian," she protested.

"Who's joking?"

It was all Jack could do to resist the childish urge to stamp her foot. She crossed to the fridge to grab a container of strawberry yogurt, and she ripped off the lid so hard that yogurt splattered everywhere. Ian didn't seem to notice. He scrolled through something on his computer screen; Jack scooped her yogurt, her mind racing between Ian's evasiveness and his constant absences and his ability to anticipate her every move. It was infuriating.

"What would you do," Jack said suddenly, without thinking, "if I left?"

Ian raised an eyebrow. "_If _you left? Jack, I've been operating under the assumption that you _will _leave someday. I don't expect you to live here forever."

Jack laughed, more bitterly than she'd intended. Ian was good. He was an expert in the subtlest forms of reverse psychology, but at least Jack knew how to retaliate.

"I can't leave," she said, her voice carefully flat, "because then Alex would be left alone with you."

It was a calculated insult, but it was also true. Ian frowned slightly; Jack looked quickly away, her gaze roaming the white cabinets and the Roman numerals of the wall clock. It was one-forty-five in the afternoon. She only had one minute left, one minute _before_. And she spent it feeling bitterly guilty.

Ten minutes trickled past. Ian rubbed his eyes wearily and clicked to the next window on his computer screen, and then his blue eyes registered something. Shock. He didn't say anything right away. He looked at Jack for a moment, sober and contemplating.

The phone rang.

"Are you okay?" Jack said, trying to read Ian's face.

He didn't answer; his eyes moved rapidly across the computer screen, back and forth. There was darkness in his face—not the same darkness Jack had seen when he knocked the gun from the intruder's hand, but it was a similar shade.

The phone rang again.

"Are you going to get that?" Jack added, smirking slightly.

"I'll call him back," Ian said.

He looked at her again, for a long moment. Jack felt as though he was sizing her up for something. She stared back at him, confused and slightly annoyed.

"Ian—"

"A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center," Ian said, without emotion.

Jack blinked. "What?"

"A plane," Ian said, turning his laptop sideways so she could see the breaking news bulletin online. "It hit the North Tower."

"Oh my God." Jack stood up and stared at the picture over Ian's shoulder—a gaping hole in the side of a building, black smoke billowing like a dark curtain into the sky. "Shit. Was the pilot asleep? How the hell do you fly a _plane_ into a _building_?"

Ian didn't say anything.

"I guess the same thing happened at the Empire State building a long time ago," she added, still staring in dark fascination at the online picture. "An army plane, wasn't it?"

Ian nodded slowly. "Yeah. A B-25 bomber."

"But this one looks bigger." She zoomed in on the picture and shook her head to clear the million thoughts swirling inside of it. "Shit. That hole could take years to fix—do you think it could've been a commercial flight?"

Ian glanced sideways at her, and then pulled the computer toward him and typed in a url. "I can open a link to American news stations, if you want to watch the coverage."

"On—on your computer?"

"Yes."

"I've never heard of that," Jack said, too stunned to be suspicious.

"The service is provided to everyone I work with." A brief pause. "At the bank."

Ian clicked through a few more windows, and suddenly Jack was staring at familiar skyscrapers and plumes of black smoke, and listening to a grim newscaster's voice.

"—It appears that there is more and more fire and smoke enveloping the top of the building, and as fire crews—"

An abrupt silence. Jack looked sideways at Ian, wishing his blue eyes didn't look so cold and hard

"—Descending on the area—" the newscaster continued, sounding uncertain.

Jack returned her eyes to the screen.

"What the—" she said, perplexed.

A plane had appeared in the shot, out of nowhere, like a rocket—the newscaster kept talking, and the plane veered toward the smoldering building and disappeared behind it, and then there was fire. An explosion.

Jack's hand flew to her mouth. She could feel Ian looking not at the terrible image, but at her.

"Oh my God," the newscaster said.

"God," Jack breathed.

She could hear reactions in the background of the news studio—gasps, screams, panicked whispers. The same newscaster kept going on—"Oh my God. Oh my God, there's another one."

A second voice joined, slick and arrogant in its effort not to sound shaken: "It looks like a second plane has just hit. That's the second explosion—"

"Two planes?" Jack whispered. She looked at Ian. He knew already, of course. He had known since the moment he saw the breaking news headline. But she wanted him to say something. "This can't be an accident," she said numbly.

"It's not an accident," Ian agreed quietly.

The news channel was interviewing a woman had seen the plane hit, a woman who sounded on the verge of hysteria. Ian muted the volume.

"Oh my God," Jack said.

The towers were burning; she couldn't tear her eyes away, couldn't even let herself blink.

"Who would do this?" she said.

Ian hesitated. In all the time that Jack had known him, he had never looked so uncertain. A stranger might have assumed that he didn't know quite how to react to the plane crashes, but Jack knew better. The look in Ian's eyes when he studied the screen was that of a firefighter at an out-of-control blaze. A terrible thing, but nothing he wasn't prepared for. Nothing he couldn't handle.

He only hesitated when he looked at Jack.

"Ian, I'm not five years old," Jack said, more harshly than she'd intended. "I'm an adult. Tell me what the hell's going on."

Ian glanced again at the two columns of smoke. Then he met Jack's eyes.

"It's terrorism," he said, with chilling certainty. "Osama bin Laden."

Jack blinked again. "Who?"

"Founder of Al-Qaeda," Ian said. "He was linked to the first Trade Center bombing, the USS Cole, and the US embassy bombings in East Africa—"

"There was another Trade Center bombing?" Jack blurted, unable to stop herself.

For the first time since the breaking news bulletin, Ian frowned at her. "Yes, Jack. In 1993."

Jack remembered, vaguely, something happening while she was in middle school. A car bomb. Six people had been killed, a tragedy. This time, six casualties would be a miracle.

The phone rang again, and Ian looked at Jack.

"Answer it," she said.

He hesitated. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said firmly.

"I know you're fine," Ian said, sounding slightly impatient. "But are you okay?"

Jack had known what he meant the first time, but she couldn't bring herself to answer. Instead, she stood up and crossed her arms over her chest. "Pick up the phone, Ian. Somebody's obviously going to have a heart attack if they don't hear your voice in the next five minutes."

Ian must have decided that Jack wasn't so delicate that she would break without him there. He stood up and disappeared into the next room. Jack was left alone with the surreal gray picture on Ian's computer screen. She thought about turning the volume back up. Decided against it.

In the next room, Ian spoke without preliminary.

"Yes, I'm aware."

Jack stared into her strawberry yogurt. Strange that she'd only opened it a few minutes ago. Strange, now, that a few minutes ago was _before, _and everything for the rest of her life would be _after._ After terrorists attacked her country, after hundreds, maybe thousands of people were killed for no reason, and aftershe was forced to watch the whole thing from an ocean away. In New York, it was morning. She wondered if the teachers would keep control of themselves, for the sake of the students, or if they would just break down crying.

"Not now," Ian said in the next room, very sharply.

A long pause.

"Tell him I'll be in tomorrow."

Jack swirled the yogurt and took a bite. It tasted like nothing.

"The gravity of the situation?" Ian said coolly. "No, it seems to have escaped me."

There was a deadly edge on his voice, but Jack hardly noticed. Everything--Ian's voice, the yogurt in her hand, the terrorist attacks--it all felt so far away. She wondered absently how Ian could be so sure that Osama bin Laden was the terrorist behind the atrocity. How could Ian possibly know that?

In the next room, he was speaking in a low voice. Jack sighed. She looked at the nightmarish image on the computer, an image that would haunt TV screens and computers and news headlines for days to come. And then she realized. This was Ian's computer. He never let anyone use it—not Jack, or Alex, or the few acquaintances that had stopped by the house. And now it was unattended, and Jack was alone.

She glanced toward the doorway to the living room.

"—It would be less than practical, with a sprained arm," Ian was saying, very quietly. "But I know at least three other available assets—"

Jack's heart pounded faster. She toyed nervously with the gold Chinese symbols on the earrings that Ian had given her.

His computer was right there. She wouldn't get another chance like this.

In a split second decision, ignoring her conscience and her doubts, she pulled the laptop across the table and opened the first program she could find. Microsoft Word. After a few clicks, she found the document history under a tab in the left corner of the screen, with a list of file names. Dragunov—CID—Hezbollah Report—she had no idea what any of it meant. Her hand shaking, she clicked Dragunov.

A small window popped up.

_Unable to locate the file "Dragunov." Would you like to locate the file yourself? _

"Shit," Jack muttered, wetting her lips and glancing into the next room. Ian hadn't spoken for a few minutes—her pulse was beating so fast that as little as a footstep would probably make her heart explode. She tried another document.

_Unable to locate the file "Hezbollah report." Would you like to locate the file yourself?_

With reckless abandon, Jack clicked "okay." Three new windows popped up—a file of Word documents, a search engine, and an 'error' screen that clutched Jack's stomach with fear. She clicked the exit button, again and again. The error was still there, the screen frozen.

"No, no, no," Jack whispered.

"Understood," Ian was saying. "I can handle the meeting, but tell Blunt I won't be at the airport for at least two hours."

"Please," Jack hissed. She hit the Escape button, jammed Alt-Control-Delete compulsively. Nothing happened. "Come _on_."

"It's not negotiable," Ian said calmly. "I'm telling you that I won't be there for a few hours." He laughed humorlessly. "At least Alex won't have to say another good-bye."

He hung up the phone, pressed both hands against his eyes for a brief moment, pushed back the first twinge of a headache. Then he returned to the kitchen. There, he found his laptop closed on the kitchen table and Jack standing in the corner, her back to him.

"What happened?" Ian said, without a trace of suspicion.

In fact, he knew what had happened. With more ease than Jack read her favorite romance novels and her law school textbook (which, admittedly, was no easy feat), Ian could read the room. He ignored the closed laptop and stepped closer to Jack. The young woman's slender shoulders were scrunched forward, her back hunched, as though she was trying to disappear inside herself.

Ian pulled her gently around. "Jack, what happened?"

She looked at him. She wasn't crying, but her green eyes glimmered like prisms, and any possible sarcastic remarks about the laptop vanished from Ian's mind.

"You're okay," he said calmly, brushing back a strand of her red hair. An unusually human gesture, for him.

"I'm sorry," Jack whispered.

She wasn't sure if she was apologizing for crying, or trying to break into his files, or both. Ian simply nodded.

"We should turn on the news in the living room," he said.

For the next hour, Jack and Ian sat side-by-side on the white couch in front of the television. Jack felt numb the whole time. She watched people running and screaming through the ash-colored streets of New York. She watched the stunned faces in convenience stores and coffee shops as dust pressed up against the windows. She watched bodies, tiny and helpless on the grainy screen, fling themselves off the top floors of the tower. The camera followed their progress as they fell—past the smoke, past the gaping wound, past windows and windows and windows. It was raining bodies.

"God," Jack said hoarsely. "How can this be happening?"

At one point, Ian brought his laptop into the living room, so Jack could watch the American coverage. When he saw the frozen screen, Ian pressed a corrective sequence of keys and didn't say a word.

The British news reported bombings in Washington D.C. Jack felt sick.

"—It appears to be that there is a major terrorist attack on a series of locations in the states. A car bomb has exploded outside the US State Department in Washington. All we know is that there was a warning for further explosions—one that has gone off in a shopping mall in the downtown area of Washington D.C., and we've just got reports—this came from Associated Press and News Alert flashes that come to us—Washington D.C., car bomb explodes outside state department. This is, I think, the fifth explosion that we've had in the last two hours."

Jack stared at the screen, her eyes glimmering again.

"What's wrong?"

"My parents live in Washington D.C.," she said flatly.

The burning towers and explosions, the struggling firefighters and thousands of innocent lives lost—all were eclipsed by one thought. Her parents. And a bomb.

She looked around for the phone, and then realized that Ian had already placed it in her hands. She dialed too quickly, missed a number, and had to start again. Her parents. She hadn't called them in months. The phone rang once, twice, three times.

"Pick up the phone," she whispered. "Pick up. God, _please_."

The call went to voicemail.

"I want to go home," Jack whispered.

Ian pried the phone gently from her hands. "You can't, Jack."

"I have to go home," Jack said, suddenly bold. What was the point in pretending, anymore? "Ian, I overheard part of your conversation and I know you're heading off on another stupid business trip, but I can't look after Alex this time. I have to get home and find my parents. I have to make sure they're—" She swallowed hard. "Can you drive me to the airport?"

Ian sighed, rubbing his forehead. He suddenly looked several years older. "Jack, you can't go home for at least a few days. All flights into the US are grounded."

"All flights?" Jack repeated, struggling to wrap her mind around the concept.

"Yes."

"What about military flights? What about—what about people who have to get home?"

"Jack, you're not serious."

In truth, she wasn't. But she didn't know what else to do.

So she sat beside Ian on the couch, and she glued her eyes to the television screen. She was watching when the South Tower collapsed. She was watching when FOX news reported another possible hijacked plane heading toward Washington. She was watching when cameras paraded the wreckage of a plane full of martyrs in a field in Pennsylvania. Ian made coffee, but Jack didn't touch it. She only clutched the mug tight enough to turn her knuckles white.

"Alex is heading to football practice right now," she said aloud, staring at the time on the US news broadcast.

Ian didn't say anything. He just sat beside her, far enough away that the backs of their hands were not quite touching, but close enough that Jack felt much safer than she would have alone.

"How can you be so calm?" she asked softly. "It's unreal.

He shook his head. "You astound me, Jack," he said quietly.

She wasn't sure what he meant, but the thought flew from her mind when the phone rang. Ian picked up. Telemarketer. He hung up without saying good-bye. They passed another minute watching the pictures on the TV screen.

"I didn't mean what I said," Jack said softly. "_Before_."

The word felt heavy. Ian glanced at her with a tired half-smile.

"Don't worry, Jack."

"And your computer—"

"Don't worry," Ian repeated firmly.

Jack felt like crying again.

"I'm going to get something from my room," Ian said. "Stay here."

He went upstairs. Jack watched numbly as camera crews chased after the citizens of New York, shouting at them, jamming microphones in their faces. She watched a woman, covered in ash and dust, sobbing hysterically. She watched a construction worker give such a genuine interview through the window of a beat-up old truck that the reporter was moved to tears.

Ian had returned, his suitcase in hand. He gave her a tissue.

"Thanks," Jack said.

The phone rang.

Ian checked his watch and then picked up, obviously expecting a call from whomever he had been talking to earlier. He said hello, listened for a moment. Then he looked at Jack, and there was comfort in his blue eyes, and Jack felt as though she might collapse from relief.

"It's for you," Ian said.

As soon as Jack heard her mom's voice, the tears refused to hold back any longer. She cried and laughed at the same time—and, hazily, she noticed that Ian had disappeared to the kitchen, giving her privacy. Jack could hardly think straight. Her mom told her that her dad was okay, and that they were heading home. Everyone in the city had been advised to stay indoors. No one had answers yet. Maybe there would never be answers. But Jack felt so light with relief that the slightest wind would have blown her away.

She was hanging up the phone just as Ian returned to the living room.

"They're okay?" he asked.

Ian. In a rush of gratitude, Jack threw her arms around him and closed her eyes against his shoulder, overwhelmed and overcome, and Ian's posture felt stiff, and it was only then that she realized what she was doing. She pulled back, flushing. Ian looked just as calm as he had the second before she jumped on him. Meanwhile, Jack's heart felt like it was about to explode out of her chest.

"I—my parents are fine," she managed. "And they're going to be okay."

Ian nodded. "Good."

She noted his suitcase. "Another conference?"

"Damage control," Ian corrected wryly. "Everything that happened this morning will have financial consequences across the world. Stock exchanges will be closing, prices skyrocketing—" He shrugged. "I would apologize for leaving so soon, but you're leaving too, aren't you?"

Jack blinked. "What?"

"You said you wanted to go home," he reminded her. "By Thursday morning, you'll be able to get on a flight to Washington."

"Oh. Right." Jack's brain felt muddled. "But—I definitely can't afford a plane ticket."

Ian slipped a credit card into her hand before she could protest. "I hope you'll come back."

It was an odd moment. Ian was only trying to help, but Jack felt as though he was trying to push her away. Maybe that was part of his strategy—if life was a game of chess, he was the master. She stared at the credit card, turning it over in her hand.

"What about Alex?" she said finally.

"I have another babysitter lined up. Not long-term, but she should be able to watch him for a week or so."

_Another babysitter. _Inexplicably, Jack's temper flared. Ian made it sound as though any ordinary babysitter could do Jack's job, but Alex was not an ordinary kid.

"I'll stay," Jack said softly.

"Sorry?" Ian glanced at her.

She cleared her throat. "I'll stay. I'll watch Alex until you get back from this next business trip, and then I'll take a few days off and visit my parents." She attempted a smile. "Right now, with all that's going on, I'd probably just get in the way in D.C., anyway.

Ian didn't look surprised. He glanced at his watch.

"Alex will be home soon. Don't tell him I was here."

"He'll probably figure it out," Jack said doubtfully.

"Not if you stick to your story," Ian said.

He moved to the front door and somehow managed to pull his jacket on smoothly, even with the sling on his arm. As he crossed the lawn toward his BMW, Jack stepped out onto the porch.

"Wait! Um—what should I tell him about—you know. The towers."

"Tell him what happened," Ian said, his blue eyes cool and intense against the gray sky.

Jack stared at him, frankly shocked. "He's eight years old, Ian."

"He can handle it."

Jack sighed. A million arguments flashed in her mind, each bolder than the next, but she didn't say a word. A minute later, Ian's car had disappeared around the corner. Gone. Again. Jack went back inside and returned to the white couch. She glanced at the TV.

The towers were gone.

On the screen, a British anchorman was struggling to sound professional and stoic. "It would appear that the second of the two towers has actually collapsed. I cannot imagine how frightening the scenes are on the streets of Manhattan right now, because they were in the process of desperately trying to evacuate . . . "

Jack pressed the mute button. She cleaned the house for the rest of the afternoon—a pointless endeavor, but safe. She scrubbed spotless countertops as though they had committed some unforgivable wrong; she dusted the same surfaces she had dusted yesterday; she brushed off the couch cushions about fifteen times. And she always found an excuse to linger in the living room, where the same images showed again and again in a macabre loop.

At five-thirty, Jack sat down, exhausted, and stared at the screen. The second tower was collapsing for the hundredth time, its hundreds of stories plummeting into the ground like a ship being sucked down into the dark ocean. Windows exploded and smoke billowed and each layer fell in on itself—and then the towers were gone. One nation, under God. But she wasn't there--she was here, and it was impossible to choose which place to call home.

She jumped in surprise at a sound on the porch. A moment later, the front door swung open.

"Jack?" Alex called.

He sounded slightly apprehensive. Perhaps he could sense some wrongness in the air, or perhaps one of his teachers had mentioned that a plane had flown into a building in the States. Alex would knew what that meant.

Jack swiped at the tears on her cheeks and stood up just as Alex entered the living room. He still wore his football jersey, and his blonde hair was tousled and sticking up in places. He looked at Jack, his brown eyes somber.

"My coach said that something really bad happened."

She nodded, blinking rapidly. "Yeah, Alex. Something did."

And somehow, despite being eight years old, Alex knew how bad it was. He dropped his book bag and hugged Jack tight. She hugged him back, desperately trying to think of something to say—but then she realized how stupid she was. Alex wasn't asking to be comforted. He was trying to comfort her. Now that Alex was there, Jack couldn't believe she had ever considered leaving.

She tousled his hair. "Thanks, Alex."

Alex didn't answer. He was looking at the picture on the TV screen, and his eyes had darkened. There were definite traces of Ian in him, Jack realized.

As though he had read her mind, Alex looked around. "Did Ian come home?"

On the screen, the towers crumbled. People screamed.

"No, Alex," Jack said faintly. "He's not home yet."

**AN--Yay, you reached the end! I'll never cease to be excited when that happens. :D **

**Now I'll commence begging for reviews--man, it's been awhile. I would REALLY appreciate your thoughts on this one, because it was a different sort of experience to write about 9/11...and I'm also not quite sure how you lovely people from other countries relate to 9/11. Plus, I have insomnia-cookies for all reviewers! Double-chocolate chip, peanut butter, cinnamon sugar, M&M...all warm and melty...mmmm. **

**EDIT--a few things for anyone's who's curious. First, all of the newscasts in this chapter are real. The part about explosions in Washington, for example, comes directly from a British 9/11 broadcast that I found on youtube. Also, my personal perspective: I am American, and I was 12 and sitting in math class when the first plane hit. I went to my next class, and my teacher turned on the news a few minutes before the second plane hit. She turned it off a half hour later.  
**

**Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: keatlin, Neptune's Violin, vampassassin, swabloo, Sam Antha, Crystal Roads, Jusmine, Emmy-loo, tati1, Arica, Princess of Rivendell, siubhan, Neptunian Diamond, ifisher, ffhoupt, Lizard13, cutecess, digiMist, kiwismakemehappy (they make me happy, too!), Nylah, Za Webmaster Authoress, JaBoyYa, dyingimmortal, skabs, McLovable, MKofGod, and Jelly1029. Your feedback is amazing...and you're all amazing, period. :D**


	6. A Thousand Words

**YAY!!! Final exams are over! Forgive me while I collapse from the sudden absence of the stress that's been holding me together.**

***ahem* Okay. Hi everyone! Congratulations to those of you who've made it through finals; to those still working, good luck! I know it's been awhile since I updated this story, but I can't keep apologizing...I'll update as often as possible, and that's the best I can do. :)**

**Last night I was feeling (bitterly) nostalgic about my parents, so I drank some coffee and wrote this. Hope you enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: Alex isn't mine. (Subject to possible editing on Christmas morning.)**

The first thing Jack heard was a gleeful shout—"YOU'RE HOME!"

She stood in the doorway, a suitcase in her hand and shopping bags draped over her arms. Before she could draw breath, it was choked out of her by slender arms flung round her neck. Alex. She closed her eyes against his tousled blonde hair and hugged him tight. Strangely, he smelled like tomato and basil.

"Have you been cooking?" Jack asked curiously, as the eight-year-old pulled away.

He nodded proudly. "I'm making tomato soup—by myself."

Jack smiled, though her eyes didn't seem quite as bright as usual.

"You little _chef de cuisine_."

He shrugged modestly. "Ian tries to cook too."

"Tries?"

Alex grinned. "And occasionally succeeds."

Jack laughed; she'd forgotten how much she loved every word out of Alex's mouth. "I don't know how I lived two weeks without you, Alex."

"That goes double for us."

Jack looked up, startled. Ian stood in the living room doorway, smiling wryly.

"Welcome back, Jack," he said.

For a split second, Jack was reminded of her first-ever meeting with him. His voice sounded as dry and elegant as it had then, and his blue eyes were unshakably cool. There was a long pause—Jack had no idea how she was meant to greet him. A handshake? An awkward wave?

"Well," she said finally, dropping her shopping bags onto the table, "obviously you both survived without me to pack your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day."

"Barely," Alex said solemnly.

"We're quite glad to have our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches back," Ian agreed, catching Jack's eye and grinning.

Jack smiled reluctantly and turned to hang her gray parka on the usual wooden hook. When she turned back around, it was with a mask of brimming energy. "So—guess what, you guys? Guess what, guess what?"

"You drank three cups of coffee at the airport," Ian suggested.

"You drank four," Alex disagreed, and Ian smirked slightly.

Jack folded her arms. "Well, fine. I guess Ill just take your gifts up to my room and shove them to the back of my closet."

But Alex's serious brown eyes had already lit up with anticipation, and Ian had rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Jack—"

"Alex," Jack interrupted smartly, handing him a shopping bag, "this is for you."

Alex opened it, and his eyes widened like saucers. "Wow!"

It was a laser tag set—two plastic black guns and two gray chest-plate targets. Jack saw Ian's forehead crease slightly, but his nephew was already testing out the gun in his hand. Jack noticed that, careful even in his imagination, Alex didn't aim it at anyone.

"This," he said seriously, "is fantastic." He paused. "Does it—work?"

"Hell, yes," Jack enthused, and then winced slightly as Ian's expression of disapproval deepened. "Um—the chest target keeps tracks of points and lights up red when you've been hit, and it gives a little electric shock, too. Five hits is game over."

Alex looked more excited than Jack had ever seen him with a present—certainly more excited than he'd been over Ian's Feng Shui compass. "Thank you, Jack."

"No prob, Alex." She saw that Ian was about to speak and added quickly, "It's just for fun, Ian. You'd get a worse shock from rubbing your foot on the carpet and touching a doorknob."

"Jack, you shouldn't have spent your money on us. It's not as though I pay you."

"Don't be stupid," Jack said bluntly, and tossed a shopping bag at him. "This one's for you."

Ian knew, from Jack's blazing eyes, that he didn't have a choice. He reached into the bag, held up some folded black fabric, and watched it unfurl—a T-shirt, black, with three white letters across the front.

"C.I.A.," Ian read aloud, with a ghost of a smile.

"Cool," Alex said absently, occupied with his laser guns.

Ian held the shirt up as though wearing it. He appeared to be fighting a smile.

"Do you like it?" Jack asked, faintly apprehensive.

"Of course." Ian surveyed the shirt a moment longer and then placed it on the table. "Was there—any particular reasoning behind it?"

Jack shrugged, flushing slightly. "I went to the Capitol Shopping Mall. It was either that, or an Air Force One sweatshirt." She dug into the last shopping bag. "And I brought this, too."

Alex and Ian leaned over to get a better look as she swept the tissue paper aside. It was a picture frame, eight-by-five inches. The frame itself was upholstered with strips of glossy magazine pages, tightly rolled. The photograph was a black-and-white image of Ian and Alex standing in front of the Notre Dame Cathedral, the same picture Jack had seen in Ian's bedroom. Jack had visited the same cathedral, too, but separately. Alone.

"Did you make this yourself?" Ian asked, trying to catch Jack's eyes.

She nodded, flushing again. "It was a fun project. When I was a kid, I used to make different kinds of frames for people—my mom, my dad—" She swallowed hard. "I should unpack."

She turned away and started for the stairs—behind her, Alex and Ian exchanged glances. As soon as her foot touched the first step, Jack's smile vanished, and as soon as her eyes fell upon the oriental mask at the end of the corridor, she found herself blinking back tears.

ARARAR

The next day, Jack opened her eyes to the tinkle of glass in the kitchen. She stretched and stared up at the star-studded ceiling, slowly reminding herself where she was. It was nine on a Sunday morning—late, by Ian's standards. The sky outside the window was a dying violet, and the clouds stood out like black shadows. She started to sit up.

"JACK! BREAKFAST"

Alex, it seemed, had learned from Jack that the best way to bring someone to the kitchen table was to scream her name through the house.

Five minutes later, when she padded into the kitchen in sweatpants and a white tank top, Jack found Alex supervising the cheese and tomato omelet on the stove, and Ian pouring maple syrup over a stack of blueberry pancakes. A pitcher of orange juice sparkled on the table.

"Wow," Jack said, looking around. "I—I could've made breakfast, you know."

Alex's brow furrowed. "I thought you hated cooking, Jack."

"Sure, but that's never stopped me before."

"Consider this breakfast an apology," Ian suggested, "for dragging you out on your first day back."

Jack's eyes narrowed shrewdly as she slid into a chair. "Dragging me out where?"

"I promised Alex I'd take him to a playground today," Ian explained, sliding two pancakes and a quarter of an omelet onto Jack's plate. "We meant to go last weekend, but—"

"But what?"

Ian was as calm as ever. "I was called away on business. Just for three days."

He awaited an explosion—Alex, meanwhile, visibly braced himself for one. Jack only sighed and stabbed a bite of pancake.

"Who watched Alex when you were away?" she asked.

"You weren't here, of course, so I found another babysitter through a temp agency."

"I didn't need a babysitter," Alex added, without an ounce of defensiveness.

Ian sighed, giving Jack the impression that Ian and Alex had already talked the subject to death. "You're eight years old, Alex."

"My babysitter was nineteen," Alex countered. "She ate out half the fridge and watched Celebrity Death Match for five hours."

"At least she was here, just in case."

"She locked herself in the bathroom for another four."

Jack snorted with laughter; Ian frowned at her and rubbed his eyes. "The point is, I promised Alex a trip to this adventure playground—"

"And you're intending to keep your promise?" Jack arched an eyebrow. "How refreshing."

"It's a twenty minute drive," he said slowly. "Don't feel obliged to come."

"I don't," Jack said flatly, drowning her pancakes in syrup. "Besides. It might be good for you and Alex to have some—you know. Bonding time, or whatever."

It was Ian's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Bonding time?"

"Sure."

"We've just had two straight weeks of bonding time."

Jack smiled, falsely bright. "Great. Now you've only got eight years, nine months, and two weeks to make up for."

A hollow pause. Alex stared blankly into his pancakes, and Ian regarded Jack thoughtfully.

"Are you okay?"

She smiled again. "I'm fine."

Ian turned around, under the pretense of replacing the clean dishes in the white cupboards. In the dark reflection on the stove, he watched Jack lower her eyes to her plate and stir the pancakes around without taking a bite. Her face was empty, emotionless.

When Ian returned to the kitchen table, his own face was clear.

"We're leaving in ten minutes, Jack. Go get your coat—and you may want to think about bringing a camera, too."

Just like that, her choice was made.

ARARAR

Against a cloudy gray backdrop, wooden and twisted and hemmed in by a chain link fence, the adventure playground was hardly what Jack had imagined.

"What the hell," she muttered, slamming the car door.

She had been expecting plastic slides, a merry-go-round, and perhaps a jungle gym—shades of the same playground all across London. But this place more resembled a junkyard. Or an obstacle course. Or a frightening demonstration of what would happen if a junkyard and an obstacle course had the ability to procreate.

Wooden poles and platform stood at varying heights, linked together by a makeshift ropes course. Someone had constructed a skeleton of a castle, dangerously tall, and built with wooden beams that looked like they'd seen a few too many rainstorms. In the center of the playground, a web of rope spiraled up to a tiny lookout platform at least twenty feet above the woodchips. A small boy with spiky black hair was perched at the top, as though it was the easiest thing in the world.

"Shit," Jack said, and was seized by a sudden urge to bite off all her fingernails.

Alex and Ian got out of the Mercedes, and, dulled against the gray sky, Alex's brown eyes widened imperceptibly.

"Alex," Jack said, glancing quickly at Ian, "if you don't want to—"

"This is bloody fantastic," Alex said, his face glowing.

"Language," Ian admonished, but not without a grin.

Before Jack could ask if a serial killer had designed this playground with hopes of increasing his productivity, Alex had already disappeared through the gate.

"Ian," Jack said, staring at him, "this is not a playground."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Don't toy with me."

"The sign says it's a playground."

"It's a deathtrap."

"It's an adventure playground."

"What the hell's the difference?"

Ian paused and glanced over at the playground again. Alex was climbing a strip of metal that twisted and curved like a giant Hotwheels racetrack, with grips and bars along each side. The boy with the spiky black hair was on the other side. A little girl clung to the top, in such a position that a fall would send her spiraling headfirst against the edge of a piece of sheet metal.

"Jesus Christ," Jack moaned, covering her eyes with both hands. "I can't watch."

"It's—postmodern," Ian commented, sounding slightly amused.

"Postmodern?" Jack echoed, ripping her hands away from her eyes and staring at him.

"Yes. A postmodern child mangler." He laughed at the expression on Jack's face. "Come on, Jack. Didn't you ever play anywhere you weren't supposed to when you were a kid? I'd have thought you were the type to play hide and seek at abandoned construction sites, or swing from the highest tree branches."

Jack crossed her arms. "So basically you think I was a delinquent monkey child?" She cringed as Alex took a small jump form one handhold to the next. "Oh God—"

"Jack." Ian held her by the arm and guided her gently through the gate. "I want you to sit down and just relax for awhile, okay?"

Jack wanted to protest, but Ian steered her to one of the swings—an old-school wooden rectangle attached to two rusted chains—and gave her a light push.

"I'm not five years old," Jack grumbled, wrapping her hands around the chains.

But Ian was already too far away to hear her; he had crossed half of the playground in his usual quick strides, and now he stood below Alex.

"All right?" Ian called.

"I can't pull myself up," Alex said—the metal wall slanted backward, using his own weight against him. He had been stuck there for a few minutes.

"Don't use your fingertips; use your fingers."

Jack rolled her eyes, but somehow, Alex understood his uncle's advice. He arched his hands so that his fingers were curved above the grips, muscles tight, and a moment later he had reached top. Ian flashed him a thumbs-up; Alex smiled back and then looked around quietly, enjoying the new vantage point.

Jack scuffed her feet in the dirt.

"Get DOWN from there, Tommy!"

Startled, Jack glanced sideways. A pair of dark-haired twenty-somethings stood beside the swing set, their postures tense and their eyes hard. They wore identical gold wedding bands.

The man, raven-haired and knobbly-looking, cupped his hands around his mouth again: "Get down, Tommy, that's too high!"

Beside him, his wife pressed her dark lips into a thin line.

"Too high," the man repeated under his breath, and mopped sweat from his brow. "This is the worst holiday ever."

"Don't be a pussy," his wife said, very softly.

Her husband blinked a few times. "Sorry?"

"You know what I said."

Jack flushed slightly and swung higher, leaning against the chains. Her own father had red hair and freckles; her mom was an ashy blonde. But suddenly Jack felt as though her parents were here, fuming in silence, calculating their next insults. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"It's all in good fun," the woman was saying, in a voice of poisoned honey.

"Ha! There's nothing fun about sitting for five hours in the emergency room and listening to the click-click-click as you chew your fingernails down to the interphalangel joints."

The woman laughed. The sound had all of the playfulness of a guillotine. "Why don't you bite me, Steve?"

The man sighed. "That's very helpful, Cindy. Very mature."

They kept at each other's throats for the next ten minutes. Jack stared straight ahead, absorbing the gray clouds sweeping the sky, and Ian looking sharp and refreshingly casual in his black C.I.A. shirt, and Alex growing bolder in his movements with each passing second. Then, with sudden inspiration, Jack slipped her old Kodak camera out of her purse and took a picture.

The shutter clicked.

"Hi, Jack!" Alex waved, grinning, as he hung upside down from the metal contraption.

Jack smiled at him and then glanced down as the snapshot faded slowly into focus. Ian, and Alex, and a junkyard of twisting metal and rain-beaten wood—it was a damn good picture. Maybe she should start a scrapbook . . .

"Hey, ginger—we're talking to you. Are you alright?"

Jack jolted and dug her heels into the dirt, stopping her momentum. The Angry Couple was staring at her. She realized, ruefully, that she had nearly managed to forget their existence.

"I—um, sorry." Her face burned scarlet. "What—?"

"Do you have a kid here?" the woman spat.

"Um—" Jack had to think about that one for a moment. "Um, yeah. Alex—the blonde boy on the postmodern deathtrap."

"And wouldn't you agree," the woman persisted, "that he' s in no danger whatsoever?"

"He's in very real danger," the man cut in, snapping Jack's attention to him. "How many stitches do you think your boy would need if he fell right now?"

Jack squinted at Alex, who was hanging by his knees from a swaying rope bridge. If his legs slipped, he would fall six feet onto the woodchips—or, a shade to the left, he would knock his head against a platform of the old wooden castle.

"Nine or ten?" Jack guessed finally.

The woman snorted, and the man spluttered indignantly.

"Don't worry so much." Jack smiled slightly at her own dramatic one-eighty. "Didn't you ever play anywhere you weren't supposed to when you were a kid?"

"Not that I can recall," the man said, and his wife huffed in disgust.

Against her will, Jack flashed back one week to the smoky interior of a restaurant. Sharp glares. Poisoned words. Inane shouting matches about the inflection of his voice, or the lines on her face, or the bushes by the front porch that she'd been forcing him to trim for the past twenty-five years.

"You're ruining your lives," she said honestly.

Then she was back in the playground, and the dark-haired man and woman were staring at her as though she'd grown an extra head.

Thankfully, Ian was drawn to her at the very moment she needed him most. He crossed the playground and stood casually beside the next swing, his hand intertwined in the chain.

"Alex is having fun," he remarked.

"Good," Jack said, forcing a smile.

"Are you?"

Before Jack could respond, the raven-haired man jumped in. "Man, please tell me you're the sensible one. I need somebody on my side."

Ian's face remained politely blank. "Sorry?"

"Please tell me that you can see this bloody 'adventure playground' for what it is. Some industrial idea-man threw some scraps of garbage together, and—God knows why—kids started to like the idea."

"Actually, it's quite the opposite," Ian said, sitting on the swing beside Jack's.

Jack smirked slightly; she could sense one of Ian's subtle you're-a-moron moments coming on.

The raven-haired man squinted. "I—don't follow."

"Children started the trend," Ian explained. "The industrial—what'd you call them?"

"Industrial idea-men," Jack supplied helpfully.

"Right." Ian half-winked at her. "The industrial idea-men only copied what already existed. After World War II, schoolchildren got rather tired of having adults around when they were trying to play."

"Adults are no fun," Jack added seriously.

"So children started sneaking off to play at wastelands and bombsites. A few years later, an industrial idea-man thought it was a good idea and created the first adventure playground, which was—"

"—just as much fun as wastelands and bombsites," Jack finished smoothly, "but with noticeably less radioactive activity."

Ian laughed aloud as the dark-haired couple turned pale. Jack smiled brightly.

"Well," the woman said haughtily—she seemed to have changed sides—"your little tongue-in-cheek story won't seem as amusing when your son's in the hospital."

Jack blinked. "Oh—Alex isn't our—"

"He's not our son," Ian said.

"And we're not married," Jack added.

The dark-haired couple exchanged sneers—very subtle, but not invisible. "I see."

At the sudden coolness in their faces, Jack's green eyes smoldered. She was in no mood to explain herself—nor, she felt sure, was Ian—and she was dead sick of fighting for approval.

"Maybe I'm wrong," she said innocently, "and I'm pretty sure you two won't know the answer—but marriage is supposed to involve a thing called love, right?"

The man's face darkened. "Sorry?"

"You know what I said," Jack said sweetly.

The man recognized his wife's cold word's thrown back at him. He took a step toward Jack, swelling in his anger. "You—"

Ian stood up. Jack's heart fluttered like a butterfly's wings. "Back off," she said, trying to sound unfazed.

When the dark-haired man took another intimidating step and tightened his fists, Ian drifted casually in front of Jack.

"I wouldn't," he said, quietly.

The man stared into Ian's cold blue eyes, held them for a shaky few seconds, and then visibly deflated.

"TOM!" he hollered.

"Steve—" his wife said helplessly.

"We're leaving," the man snapped.

And they did. Alex and the black-haired boy had been seconds away from meeting in the middle of the ropes course, but at his father's shout, the agile black-haired boy winced and hopped down to the ground. He ran to his parents' side, his head lowered, and a moment later they all packed into their little red sedan and drove away.

Ian had returned to his swing—he was watching Alex, and his blue eyes had a faraway look. Jack's heart gradually slowed to its usual tempo. On impulse, she held up the Kodak camera and flashed a picture.

"Gotcha," she said cheerfully, as Ian blinked in surprise. "If you and Alex ever get sick of me, at least I'll be able to pursue a promising career in photography."

Ian looked at her with an unreadable expression. "We won't."

Jack flashed him a self-deprecating smile. "That's what you think." She watched, mildly curious, as the red sedan turned the corner and drove out of sight. "I wonder if they believed our bullshit story."

Ian actually laughed. "It wasn't bullshit until you started adding rubbish about radioactive activity."

Jack shrugged. "They pissed me off a little."

Ian laughed again. Jack's spirits lifted; she swung higher, to match her mood.

The next sound was Ian's—an almost inaudible sigh.

"What's wrong?" Jack asked, glancing at him.

Then she noticed a little boy trapped at the top of the rock wall. His father was hopping in near panic at the bottom, too engorged on a diet of Big Macs and French fires to help his boy down. Jack would've laughed if she didn't feel like crying.

"Think we should lend a hand?" Ian said, raising an eyebrow at Jack.

"I think you should." She smiled sweetly. "Isn't that what the C.I.A. does—it helps people?"

"It tries, at least."

Ian went off to help the hopeless; Jack watched him go for a few moments and then idly traced shapes in the dirt. When she next looked up, Alex was running toward the swings. His face was alive with color and a few smudges of dirt.

"Are you okay, Jack?" he asked, without precursor.

He sounded so serious and hopeful that Jack's heart nearly broke.

"Yes, Alex," she said firmly. "I'm fine. I'm sorry I acted like a pod-person this morning, but I'm back to my old self—I promise."

Alex shrugged, looking relieved. "You were gone for two whole weeks. Not everyone can jump around the world like Ian and not let it get to them."

"Ian's a freak that way," Jack agreed, smiling.

"He noticed right away that something was wrong," Alex added matter-of-factly.

Jack blinked. "He did?"

"Yeah. I thought so, too."

Jack bit her lip. She was beginning to understand. Their mismatched little unit—uncle, nephew, and babysitter—formed a perfect harmony. One wrong note resonated with such dissonance that the others couldn't help but notice. Jack was surprised, and strangely comforted, by the rush of warmth that washed over her.

She was even more surprised to feel secretly pleased that Ian Rider had been worried about her.

Alex looked at the dirt at Jack's feet. She had traced a heart—he added his own, with the toe of his trainer.

"I'm glad you're okay, Jack."

And she realized that she was.

ARARAR

Two hours later, Ian's silver Mercedes pulled into the driveway. The sky was still dark, but rays of sunshine were starting to peek through.

"So what did you think?" Ian asked, as he and Jack stepped out onto the driveway. "I mean, besides the fact that I'm a horrible guardian and that we're lucky Alex didn't break his neck."

Jack smiled. "Actually, I thought it was cool."

Ian raised an eyebrow. "Really."

"It reminded me of my favorite old playgrounds. Back before everything was safe and sanitized."

Ian nodded—he had known, already, that Jack's disapproval had only been for the sake of playing the good babysitter, or perhaps only for the sake of disapproving. "It's more fun with an element of risk," he agreed, holding the front door open.

Alex was already inside. He looked like he wanted to pull out his new laser guns again, but Jack shook her head.

"We need to get you cleaned up first, Alex," she said—he had smudges of dirt on his face and a scrape bleeding slightly on his knee. "You look like you just ran across a battlefield."

"Right." Alex held up one of the laser guns, an offering. "After we get cleaned up, do you want to go in the backyard and get dirty again?"

"I'd love to, Alex."

Bouncing with new energy, Alex disappeared into the bathroom, and a moment later Jack heard the water running. She moved to follow him. Then she hesitated.

"Ian," she said.

He paused in the doorway, looking through her with those blue eyes, but suddenly she couldn't bring herself to put her thoughts into words. Her parents' almost-divorce—their promise to avoid screaming at each other in public—watching them break the promise—her mother's sudden addiction to stress-baking, and her father's new "friend" from work—and the devastating knowledge that home wasn't the same place she remembered.

"It's good to be back," Jack said finally.

Ian nodded. "It's good to have you back."

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but Jack's green eyes were already glimmering with tears. She wheeled around and strode quickly to the bathroom to clean up Alex's scrape and wash his face. Ian watched her go. Then he removed the Kodak camera from her bag.

When Jack returned to the front door to kick of her tennis shoes, she found the room empty. Her homemade picture frame was on the table, but it had changed.

She picked it up. Instead of the black-and-white of Alex and Ian in front of a cathedral, there was a full-color photograph of Alex in a swing, Jack grinning and hanging onto one of the chains, and Ian on the other side in his black C.I.A. shirt, smiling broadly.

Jack replaced the picture frame on the table. She knew she should thank Ian, but the words wouldn't come.

And it was a mark of the depth of the photograph that she didn't need to say a word.

**Yay! You made it! I've been baking round two of Christmas cookies (this time for a Christmas music party this Sunday...) and once again there are plenty of extra batches for those lovely people who REVIEW! (grin) My mom and I have been baking so many cookies that I'm starting to dream about them. Not bad dreams, by all accounts. **

**Edit--yes, the little black-haired boy is Tom, as in Alex's future best friend from Brooklands. :)**

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: MKofGod, ImiTation, Jusmine PsychoWing, swabloo, St. Danger, whatever95, Emmy-loo, Nyxelestia, Lilly Romanov, maddierox216, Buchworm13, JaBoyYa, skabs, Neptune's Violin, vampassassin, keatlin, JamieGlasgow4, EwanLuvr4Ever, and EternalFlame105. Thank you! Extra cookies for everyone (and I truly wish there was a way to deliver cookies via email, because real cookies are slightly more delicious than imaginary cookies).**


	7. I'll Be Home for Christmas

**Merry Christmas, everyone!**

**Disclaimer: (sigh) Not mine, okay?**

_I'll be home for Christmas_

_You can count on me_

_Please have snow and mistletoe_

_And presents under the tree_

Jack knew better than to ask.

It had taken her awhile. Years, in fact. She had watched Ian jump up and fly halfway around the world at a moment's notice. She had watched him step through the doorway exhausted, with mysterious bruises and dark shadows beneath his eyes. She had found him, once, collapsed on the porch with an empty syringe clutched in hand. His skin had been paper-white, his eyes closed, his veins a frightening blue.

Jack had sat on her heels and stared at the cold needle for a full ten minutes. Was this Ian's secret? What drugs had he been injecting?

But then Ian had woken up. His blue eyes had focused almost instantly, and he had muttered something sarcastic about "belladonna" as Jack helped him inside. Under her scrutiny, he explained—with infuriating calm—that he had needed a round of routine injections to quell an allergic reaction to the "extract of orchis mascula" in his "sahlab," which had been served during a business lunch in Cairo.

Jack had been too dazed to figure out whatever the hell that meant. It hardly mattered, anyway.

As the months passed, she gained a reluctant understanding of why Alex rarely worried about his uncle's disappearances. Ian's business trips were like the scream of police sirens in the backstreets of Detroit, or the constant swell of music in an orchestra hall—just part of the scenery.

But there was one room on the second floor that Jack suspected might hold some answers. It was right next to Ian's bedroom, and the door was always locked—not even Alex was allowed inside. On the nights when sleep refused to keep her company, Jack stared at the stars on her ceiling and wondered what lay behind the locked door. Sometimes, she convinced herself that she would find an army of hollow porcelain figurines, or plastic bags containing white powder. Other times, she just _knew _that a black mask and cape were hanging in the doorway.

But whether Ian was a cocaine smuggler or Batman, Jack would never find out. By late December, more than two years after her arrival on the Riders' doorstep, she had learned not to ask questions. At least, not aloud. It was too stressful to play chess with a man who always seemed three moves ahead. Instead, Jack opted for a strategic retreat—she would watch Ian closely, bite her tongue when she could, and hope that he would drop his guard. And, occasionally, she would guilt him into doing things that he didn't want to.

Such was the case on the morning of December 24th.

"Okay, watch your step," Jack said, laughing, as Alex stumbled backward into the living room. "You got it, Alex?"

"Got it," the nine-year-old said seriously.

He carried his end into the living room, and Ian followed with a steady grip on the heavier side. "Thanks, Jack," he said, as he brushed past her. "It's been too long since the house smelled like a taxi cab air freshener."

"You're welcome, Ian," Jack said flippantly; she let the door swing shut and followed Alex and Ian into the living room.

The Christmas tree was nearly eight feet tall. It was perfect—"full and sprucey," as Jack had enthusiastically put it. Pine needles rained onto the carpet as Ian steadied the tree. He watched with just a tinge of impatience as Jack and Alex positioned the wooden tree-stand beneath it.

"This tree's just like you, Jack," Alex said brightly, as he tightened the screw.

"Yeah?"

"It's so sappy."

"Ha-ha, Alex. And free this month only, a bonus ha." (1)

When the tree was secure, Jack, Alex, and Ian stood back to admire their handiwork. The tree was slightly crooked, and the top branches nearly brushed against the ceiling. There was a long silence, broken only by a faint tick-tock and Ian's almost inaudible sigh.

"It looks bigger now that it's inside," Alex said finally.

"Wait till we decorate it," Jack enthused.

"We can't," Ian said calmly. "I don't have any ornaments, and unless you feel like queuing up for two hours with a bunch of ravenous last-minute shoppers, I don't recommend that you buy any."

Jack squinted at him. "I can't decide if your bitterness is more the style of Mr. Grinch or Ebenezer Scrooge."

"Most decidedly the Grinch," Ian said, with a crooked smile. "Ghosts rarely haunt me, and I've never said 'humbug' in my life."

"Not yet," Jack said, looking coyly at him.

He laughed, his blue eyes sparkling—and although Jack wasn't anywhere near being the Grinch, she could've sworn that her own heart grew a few full sizes. Alex and Ian hadn't celebrated Christmas together for the past two years. When Alex was seven, Ian had been away on business, not to return until Alex's birthday in January. When Alex was eight, Ian had been called into the office, and Alex had been sound asleep by the time his uncle returned home. This would be Jack's first official Christmas with the Riders—and she planned to make it a golden memory for Alex to look back upon.

"Okay," she said thoughtfully, sinking onto the white couch. "What do you guys usually do on Christmas? Does Santa ever bring you—?"

But Alex was shaking his head. "Santa isn't real, Jack."

"Ian!" Jack gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "How could you spoil the magic of Christmas for him? My parents let me believe in Santa until I was at least ten!"

Alex blinked. "Really?"

"Yes," Jack said emphatically.

"When you were ten years old, you thought that a fat old man traveled around the whole entire world in one night and carried two billion toys on a sled pulled by flying deer?"

Ian turned away and straightened the top of the Christmas tree. He seemed to be suppressing laughter.

"I—there's a time difference," Jack said, flushing.

"Deer don't fly," Alex reminded her.

Jack shook her head, nonplussed. She refused to get drawn into a debate about the logistics of flying reindeer, especially because she knew that, despite her law school training, Alex would win.

"You look so incredibly disappointed," Ian said, his lip twitching.

Jack pouted slightly. "I just think you should've let him believe in something magical, at least for a little while."

Ian shrugged. "I didn't want to tell an unnecessary lie."

Jack snorted disdainfully; she couldn't help herself. "Of course not. You only tell the necessary ones."

"Sorry, Jack?"

Jack shook her head, exasperated. "Forget it. Let's just talk about Christmas, okay?" She looked from Ian to Alex. "Do you have any family traditions I should know about?"

Ian and Alex looked at each other; Alex gave a sort of half-shrug.

"At my house," Jack explained, looking slightly wistful, "we used to put on the Charlie Brown Christmas CD, decorate the tree, and drink hot cranberry-apple punch. I was always allowed to open one present on Christmas Eve, and it usually ended up being new pajamas or a blanket, something I could use right away."

"Economical," Ian said, straight-faced.

He was making fun of her, but gently.

"We always put out cookies for Santa, too," Jack added, smiling. "Even after I stopped believing in him."

She closed her eyes briefly, remembering; Ian and Alex exchanged glances again.

"Jack," Ian said quietly, "are you sure you don't want to go home for Christmas?"

He had offered her two weeks' holiday, but Jack shook her head. "No. I—truthfully, Ian, I wouldn't know which of my parents to spend it with." She smiled brightly. "Besides. I'd much rather wake up on Christmas morning with my two favorite boys in the world."

"Stay here," Alex agreed. "We'd be completely hopeless without you."

"That's probably true," Ian admitted.

Jack smirked. Over the years, she had grown immune to the Riders' innumerable charms. "I'll stay," she sad, looking down at Alex with mock-sternness, "but your puppy eyes have nothing to do with it."

"What about mine?" Ian said, deadpan.

Jack couldn't help but laugh. She opened her mouth to respond, probably with something dismissive and slightly sarcastic.

Then the telephone rang.

Jack's face froze. She could feel the familiar twist of dread, the barbed wire chain tightening around her heart Beside her, Alex lowered his brown eyes to the floor, and Ian's smile faded.

The phone rang again.

Much more quickly than she had learned not to ask questions, Jack had learned to dread the phone. Ian had few acquaintances and no close friends; a telephone call meant telemarketers, or parent-teacher conferences, or a business conference halfway around the world.

The phone rang again.

"Are you planning to get that?" Jack said coldly.

Ian met her eyes. He knew that she knew—to a certain extent, at least.

"I'm not sure," he said honestly.

Jack sighed. "Uh huh."

She knew that the truth would become a lie. Ian's character was cool and calm and unaffected. Despite any regrets, he would go where he was needed. He disappeared into the next room, and the phone didn't ring a fourth time.

"Rider."

His voice was faint, but clear. Jack and Alex caught each other's eyes and then quickly looked away.

"When?" Ian said sharply.

Jack searched desperately for any words. Christmas was slipping through hers and Alex's fingers; she wanted to distract Alex from the loss, but suddenly English no longer seemed a natural language.

"Jack," Alex said quietly.

"I don't have my Charlie Brown CD," she blurted out suddenly.

"Oh."

"But I'll definitely make some cranberry-apple punch. You'll love it."

"That sounds like fun," Alex said blandly.

"It will be," Jack promised—and then, irrationally, she added, "We will have Christmas together, Alex. I'll convince Ian to stay."

The nine-year-old shook his head. He seemed to be holding back a bitter smile. She hadn't even known that he was capable of a bitter smile.

"You won't, Jack," he said.

Jack's heart contracted painfully. His cool voice was Ian's voice. The glint in his eyes was the glint in Ian's eyes. In that moment, Jack forgot all about strategic retreat. She forgot about everything except the righteous indignation—and the tiny ounce of selfish desire—burning through her veins.

"I'll tell Ian," she repeated, her green eyes smoldering.

"Tell me what?"

Ian had reappeared in the doorway. Jack glared at him.

"That depends on what you're about to tell us," she said icily.

Ian rubbed his forehead. He had been known to act cavalier; Jack had seen him treat a trip to Bosnia like a quick outing to the supermarket. But even Ian Rider couldn't smooth over the ripples of his next words.

"There's a conference in Tokyo," he said.

Jack had known what was coming, but that didn't make it any easier.

"When?" she snapped.

"The last flight takes off at four a.m. I'll need to be en route to the airport by three."

There was a long silence, broken only by a steady tick-tock and the faint crooning of Christmas music from Jack's CD player in the kitchen. Then she shook her head quietly.

"Ian, please. It's Christmas Eve."

But even as she spoke, she knew it was no good. Ian disappeared to his office, and Alex disappeared to his bedroom, and the doors closed at the same time. Jack stood in the living room, alone. From the kitchen, she heard Bing Crosby singing "I'll Be Home For Christmas," and she had to blink back tears.

ARARAR

The rustle of papers. The soft whirr of a metal drawer.

Jack stood in the rose-tinted corridor, her ear pressed against the door to Ian's office. It was locked, of course. And Ian probably knew she was eavesdropping. But she was determined to ambush him with a serious talk, and this would require an all-day stakeout. She'd already arranged everything—a small novel was in her pocket, in case she got bored, and Alex had agreed to bring her a few cookies every couple of hours. She had also brought the telephone, in case she needed to field a call. She was prepared for a long day.

Ten minutes later, the door swung open. Jack was taken by surprise; she toppled forward, careening toward the wooden floor. Somehow, Ian's arm slipped around her and brought her to her feet.

"Were you planning to stand outside my door all day?"

Jack refused to blush. "Maybe."

Ian stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him; Jack just got a glimpse of the cherry-wood desk and steel filing cabinets before the office disappeared from view. Reluctantly, she returned her eyes to Ian's face.

"It's Christmas, Ian," she said, hating how her voice edged into a whine. "It's the time of year when families are supposed to be together. You can't just fly off to—to God knows where."

"Tokyo," he said flatly, sliding past her.

"Right. Tokyo." Jack followed him to his bedroom door. "I guess you're doing the right thing. After all, it just wouldn't be Christmas unless Alex was left alone."

Ian had just pushed into his bedroom, but he glared back at her with cold fire in his eyes.

"Do you have to make this difficult, Jack?"

"Do you have to leave?" she countered.

He unclasped his black overnight bag and placed a few blank files in the bottom. Then he covered them with a black shirt and a pair of slacks. Jack stood in the doorway, arms folded.

"You're ignoring me now?"

Ian looked sharply up at her, and her stomach swooped; there was a flash of ice-cold anger in his face that he rarely directed toward her. But then he smiled.

"You don't believe in God, do you, Jack?"

The question was so sudden, so completely out-of-the-blue, that Jack couldn't speak. Her face felt hot and prickly. He'd never asked her anything quite so personal, and his question carried a dark weight.

"I don't know," she mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

"Do you believe in Jesus?" Ian pressed. "And by 'Jesus,' I mean the son-of-God, water-walking variety."

Again, Jack gave no real answer.

"It's his birthday, you know," Ian reminded her. "What else are we celebrating? If you don't believe that the little baby in the nativity scene will grow up to be particularly special, how is Christmas different from any other day?"

Jack shrugged. Her face burned redder than her hair. "I don't know, Ian. I just wanted—"

His expression softened. "I know what you wanted, Jack, but Christmas is just the twenty-fifth of December. I haven't had a business trip in two months—and that means I've spent the past two months with you and Alex. If, now, I have to pay for those two months with the loss of one overblown winter's day, I don't regret it. Not in the least."

He stacked a gray shirt on top of the black one. Jack chewed on her lip.

"I know what you mean. But—"

He glanced up again. "But what?"

Jack shook her head angrily. His sharp blue eyes made her feel like a glass ornament with a light cutting through it. He didn't intimidate her—at least, not much—but he knew how to blur her thoughts. After twenty-odd years of crackling fireplaces and silent nights and cookie trays sprinkled with sugar, she found herself doubting if Christmas meant anything at all.

"This is why I'll never play chess with you," Jack muttered, and made a strategic retreat.

ARARAR

"I'm sorry, Alex," Ian whispered.

It was almost midnight on Christmas Eve. Alex didn't open his eyes.

"Don't worry, Ian. Have a grand time in Japan."

Alex had spoken in barely a whisper, but his edge of sarcasm made Ian wince. He hugged Alex briefly.

"I'll bring you back something good."

"Okay," Alex agreed.

"Take care of Jack while I'm away."

He ruffled Alex's hair. Then, when the child's breathing had evened out in the darkness, he slipped out into the corridor and closed the door softly behind him.

ARARAR

_I'm dreamin' tonight of a place I love_

_Even more then I usually do_

_And although I know it's a long road back_

_I promise you_

ARARAR

"Ian."

It was dark, and cold, and empty like a tomb.

"Ian," Jack repeated urgently. "Wake up."

She could just see his silhouette, asleep in the darkness. The clean lines of his bedroom had faded into angular shapes, clear-cut shadows, like the walls of a maze. Jack had knocked lightly on the door, and when no one answered, she had tiptoed inside and hadn't hesitated until she was directly beside Ian's black futon.

"Ian," she whispered.

He didn't stir. With slight trepidation, she reached out and touched his shoulder, and—

"Shit!" she blurted, stumbling backward.

In a split second, faster than Jack could blink, Ian had shot out of bed, swept something from underneath his pillow, and flicked on a lamp. Jack backed against the wall, squinting in the dazzling light, her breathing shallow; Ian looked her up and down, and then sighed and tucked whatever he was holding somewhere out of sight.

"Jack, for the love of—"

"I'm sorry," Jack gasped, pressing a hand against her chest. "And you just gave me a heart attack, by the way." She took a shaky breath. "I guess I should've known better, given the fact that I've seen you take out an armed intruder in about three seconds."

Ian looked faintly amused. He wore gray sweatpants and no shirt. Jack was struck, simultaneously, by three observations. First—it was refreshing to see him looking so casual, so human. Second—he was absurdly fit.

Third, he had a scar on his chest that looked a bit like a bullet wound.

"What's that?" she asked slowly.

But he was already pulling on a T-shirt. "What's what?"

"I just—" Jack shook her head, frustrated. "Never mind. Come downstairs."

"Why?"

For the first time, he looked vaguely confused.

"Come downstairs," Jack repeated, smiling coyly; she was enjoying this subtle sense of power. "Or did you think I woke you up just to say hello?"

"I guess not." Ian ran a hand through his hair. "Is Alex asleep?"

"No." Her voice dripped honey. "It's one in the morning, so naturally he's downstairs playing backgammon."

"Backgammon?" Ian repeated, smirking.

"Just come on," Jack said, rolling her eyes.

Ian followed Jack out into the rose-tinted corridor. He noticed, with a slight frown, that she had changed into a knitted green sweater and a slim pair of jeans with small silver bells on the back pockets—he almost laughed as they jingled. She had also pulled her hair into a ponytail, and bauble-shaped earrings dangled from her ears. On anyone else, they would've looked horrible. On her, they were somehow charming.

"New pajamas?" Ian asked, as Jack pulled him down the steps. "Or are you trying to impersonate a mannequin in the department store window? I doubt—"

Then, in the doorway to the living room, Ian stopped short. His eyes swept across the room. Beside him, Jack stood with her arms folded and a small smile playing around her cherry lips

"Jack," Ian said finally, looking at her. "I don't know what to—"

At that moment, a tousle-haired Alex appeared in the doorway.

"What's going on?" he asked, yawning.

Then he looked around, and his whole face lit up. It was a rare, unguarded moment—Jack thought, with an ironic smile, that Alex looked just like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Merry Christmas, Alex," she said simply.

The living room had transformed into the Christmas morning of Jack's childhood. Colorful strands of Christmas lights hung near the ceiling, casting an enchanted glow over everything. Apple-cranberry punch sparkled in a glass bowl, and beside it, a plate proudly displayed a half-eaten cookie and several crumbs. The walls were decorated with cardboard cut-outs of snowmen and gingerbread men, and, absurdly, three socks hung from one of the bookshelves.

"Stockings," Ian murmured, his lip twitching.

"Jack, this is amazing," Alex breathed, and then grinned. "Did Santa help you?"

She shook her head seriously. "I didn't do any of this, Alex. In fact—"

But Ian was shaking his head, too. He knew that Jack planned to give him the credit. She would pretend that Ian had planned everything; he would be the hero in Alex's eyes.

By the look in Ian's eyes, that was one thing he couldn't bear.

The Christmas tree itself shimmered with color and light. Jack had hung keychains—a sandal from Australia and an Eiffel tower from France, a dolphin from Sea World and a cupcake from Urban Outfitters. She had hung garlands of popcorn, which she had popped and strung together after Ian and Alex went to bed. She had hung white candles and gem-studded earrings, candy canes and pine tree-shaped air fresheners. And the whole tree sparkled with blue and purple lights.

"It still needs a star on top," she told Ian.

The cardboard star was carefully cut, and both sides sparkled with gold glitter. Ian picked it up and watched the gold shimmer.

"Jack," he said slowly.

"Don't tell me I shouldn't have," Jack said calmly.

"I wasn't going to. I was trying to find the best way to thank you."

Jack shrugged and nodded toward the Christmas tree. Ian swallowed hard, looking down at the star in his hand. Then he reached up and carefully placed the star at the top of the tree. The tip just brushed the ceiling.

"Looks like Santa came," Jack said, winking at Alex.

She turned on her Christmas CD and tossed Alex his shiny-wrapped present, and the North Star shone brightly overhead.

ARARAR

"I was wrong."

After tucking Alex back into bed, Jack had returned downstairs to find Ian staring up at the golden star, his blue eyes unreadable. It was nearly two-thirty a.m.; the house was silent, except for the steady tick-tock and the whirr of Jack's CD player.

"I was wrong," he repeated, lowering his gaze to hers. "Alex needed this."

Jack smiled, sinking down on the couch. "You think he liked it?"

"He loved it."

He poured himself another glass of punch and sat next to Jack. For a few moments, neither spoke; the silence was calm and comfortable. Jack had achieved her first checkmate, and Ian didn't resent her for it—in fact, he was thankful. And Jack felt satisfied.

"Is this how a parent feels after Christmas morning?" she wondered aloud, yawning.

"I wouldn't know," Ian remarked.

Jack glanced at him, startled by what she already knew—by the fact that Alex was not Ian Rider's son. Often, she saw flashes of them in each other, at unexpected moments. They were best friends. And every day, they grew more and more alike.

"What?" Ian said quietly.

"I forget, sometimes."

They sat in silence for a few moments longer. Bing Crosby was back to the same song as before—and Jack wasn't sure if this was home, but it was more than she had anywhere else.

She found, suddenly, that she was in the mood for some truth.

"_Atropa belladonna_," she said, out of nowhere. "Deadly nightshade. All parts of the plant are toxic, especially the berries and the roots."

She waited. Beside her, she felt Ian stiffen slightly. Then he stretched, regaining his unshakable calm. "I'm not sure—"

"What was nightshade doing in your drink, Ian?"

"What drink?" He looked down at the glass of punch in his hand, and then raised an eyebrow at Jack. "Have you been researching deadly plants? And, more importantly, should I be scribbling down my Last Will and Testament on my napkin?"

The lines were delivered flawlessly. If she hadn't seen him on the porch, pale and sick, his forehead shining with sweat and the empty vial clutched in hand, she might have believed him.

Then again, she might not have.

"You can trust me, Ian," she said flatly.

"I know," he said, flashing her a quick smile.

"Obviously, you don't."

He didn't say anything after that. She wanted to believe that he respected her enough not to insult her intelligence with another lie. Or maybe he was just tired. With a sigh, Jack plunged on—because if she wanted Ian to tell the truth, she would have to lead by example.

"Earlier, you said that Christmas doesn't mean anything. Not if we don't believe in God, or in Jesus."

"I said something like that," Ian agreed.

Jack took a deep breath. "Christmas is more than that, Ian. It's Jesus' birthday and a Pagan celebration, love and hope and belief mixed together like colors in the sunrise."

"You're feeling poetic," Ian said, with a ghost of a smile.

"I'm feeling truthful," Jack corrected flatly. "And the truth is that you were wrong. For a lot of people, Christmas is a secular holiday that means a hell of a lot. It's a day when families stay together and appreciate what they have. Each other."

"I agree," Ian said quietly. "But what about every other day? Shouldn't they mean just as much?"

Jack shrugged. "I can understand that. Well put, too."

Ian spared her with a delicious half-smile. "Your poetry is contagious."

"But I have to tell you," she added softly, "that I lied to you earlier. By omission, at least."

Ian raised an eyebrow again. "Really."

Jack nodded. "My Christmas isn't secular."

In Ian's eyes, there was a spark of amusement. "Don't take this wrong, but you don't seem the type to kneel before a cross and sing 'Happy Birthday Jesus.'"

"I haven't been to church in about—forever," Jack admitted, "but that doesn't have anything to do with what I believe."

"What do you believe?" Ian asked. He didn't sound judgmental; merely curious.

Jack shrugged, flushing. "I believe that God has a sense of humor. I believe—or maybe I just hope—that our last breath won't be our last moment." She paused. "I believe that Jesus forgives us. And I believe it would be damn painful to go through life, screwing things up and maybe even hurting other people, without belief in something bigger."

"Bigger," Ian repeated, frowning slightly. "Like—some grand plan? Everything happens for a reason?"

"Maybe."

"So are we pawns on a chessboard, or goldfish in a bowl, or something entirely different?"

"I'm not sure," Jack admitted. She glanced sideways at Ian, and then, recklessly, plunged on. "I know your life isn't easy, Ian. I know you have to worry about taking care of Alex and doing your job and hiding whatever you don't want us to know."

"I'm not hiding anything that you would care to know," Ian said, quietly.

Once again, the line was delivered flawlessly. Jack shook her head.

"I don't understand how you can live through every day without some kind of faith." She hesitated. "You're the most together man I've ever met, but you don't believe in redemption."

Ian's answer surprised her.

"I never said that."

She stared at him sharply. His gaze had already moved to the North Star on top of the Christmas tree—bright and permanent, a guiding light.

"I wish I could tell you, Jack," he said, very quietly.

Jack stared at him. She could feel her heart pumping double-time. This was the first time Ian had ever acknowledged that he had anything to hide. She could sense some new element, some note of risk. And at the same time, she could sense that she wouldn't get any more out of Ian tonight.

Ian stood up. Jack watched, stunned and slightly frustrated, as he slid on his dark coat and retrieved his suitcase from the hall closet. It was two fifty-five; Jack hadn't even noticed the seconds slipping away. Before he left, Ian glanced back at her, his blue eyes dancing with the colorful Christmas lights. Then he was gone.

"Merry Christmas," Jack muttered, draining the rest of her punch in one swallow.

Outside, as he drove to the airport, Ian thought he might have made a mistake.

Inside, as she turned off the Christmas lights and swept the wrapping paper off the floor, Jack wondered how much Ian hadn't told her. And suddenly she knew for whom she would be praying tonight.

_Christmas Eve will find me_

_Where the love light beams_

_I'll be home for Christmas_

_If only in my dreams_

**Yay! Christmas fluff (with an undertone of sadness)! PLEASE review and let me know what you think. For the record, this is not meant to contain any sort of religious commentary! It's just one interpretation of Jack's and Ian's beliefs, in the way I saw working best with the story and their personalities. **

**Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: sockpuppet82, skabs, Snuffle, Neptune's Violin, Von, Emmy-loo, KlutzyQT, MKofGod, Ambrele, whatever95, Jusmine, Nyxelestia, ClassicalBrunette, JaBoyYa, DarkElements10, rid3r chick, EwanLuvr4Ever, Sylaxas, True Colours, kiwismakemehappy, rmiller92, St. Danger, and jaguar003. You're all fantastic people. :D**

**Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night! ;)**


	8. Fantasie Impromptu

**(shivers) Okay, I have a new cause to fight for. It's been snowing nonstep for the past three and a half days, to the point where my shorter friends have to tread carefully or risk being completely submerged in a snowdrift, and when I step outside, I immediately freeze to death. (grin) Well, not exactly. But it's cold. And snowy. And at this lovely university, there's no such thing as a "snow day", so tomorrow morning I'm going to trudge through a small blizzard to get to class.**

**Not to complain, but I MISS SNOW DAYS!!!**

**Okay. (clears throat) Down to business. I'm REALLY curious to see what you guys think about this chapter. It's structured in movements, to imitate the structure of a piece of music. The sections that start with "Adagio sostenuto" take place in the present, and the numbered movements (I, II, etc) are flashbacks of the previous day. Good luck! :)**

**And to explain why I'm updating this story when I'm due to update the other one--Real Life has been relentless lately, and this story is much quicker and easier to write. Hope you enjoy!**

_Adagio sostenuto_

Jack Starbright couldn't stop staring. One hundred Ian Riders were moving toward her, calm and emotionless, the blue eyes sharp enough to pierce her heart from any distance. She swallowed hard. There were a hundred of Alex in the tiny square mirrors, too, and a hundred of herself, but she didn't notice them.

"Wait until you see the inside," Alex muttered, grinning conspiratorially at Jack. "It looks sort of like a high-tech alien planet."

Jack blinked, jolted back into reality. Wake up, she told herself sternly. She, Alex, and Ian were approaching the entrance of Blank Canvas Furniture, a high-end furniture warehouse on the south end of London. And she had promised that she would act as though nothing was wrong.

"Come on, Alex," she said. "It can't be that—"

Then, suddenly, she stopped: it required all of her energy to absorb what she was seeing. Mirrored walls. A high glass ceiling. A glossy wooden floor, cluttered with geometric, vaguely artistic furniture that wouldn't have looked out-of-place in a movie set in the year 2310.

"You shop here?" Jack said, staring at Ian.

His lip twitched slightly. "Yes, Jack."

"Let me rephrase. _You_ shop here?"

Ian turned toward her, cool and calm as ever. "This is where my brother and I bought the old sofa. You remember the old sofa, don't you? Simple—comfortable—and, once upon a time, white?"

She flushed. "Now that you mention it, that does ring a bell."

Ian smiled slightly and checked his watch. "I have two hours before I'm due back at the bank."

"Then we should move fast," Jack said. "There's a lot of alien territory to cover."

She grabbed Alex's hand and tugged him forward into the uncharted maze of furniture, before Ian could pin her beneath his blue-eyed frown. In truth, she felt more than a little guilty about what had happened the previous day, and especially guilty that Ian had been forced to take a morning off from work to shop for a replacement sofa. But he seemed just as casually sarcastic as ever, so Jack felt obliged to keep up her half of the tête-à-tête.

"What the hell is this?" she muttered, scrutinizing a white sphere with one side cut diagonally and upholstered with a cushion. "A mutant egg? A space pod?"

"I like this one," Alex said, pointing at a stool twisted together from recycled steel, aluminum rims, and two bicycle tires. "There's nothing like a good, comfy chair."

"Be serious, Alex," Ian said.

"I am," Alex replied gravely, and Jack had to bite back a grin.

Ian looked as though he wanted to roll his eyes, but grinned slightly instead. "Okay. What do you think of this one?"

He was pointing at the most normal piece of furniture Jack had seen so far, a futon with curved wooden armrests and a low frame. Alex sat down on the black cushion and bounced a few times. Ian watched him expectantly.

"It's nearly as soft as a brick wall," Alex said.

"Well, it's not perfect," Ian said, frowning, "but the back reclines to create a full-sized bed. Wouldn't you like that, Alex? Your friends could spend the night."

"I don't have any friends that would want to," Alex said, bouncing a few more times on the pseudo-cushion. And, as an afterthought, "It turns into a bed? Is that where the word 'bedrock' comes from?"

Per usual, Ian didn't even blink. "You have friends, Alex."

"None that would want to sleep over," Alex said, shrugging.

"What about your football team? Those guys really seem to like you."

"I'm good at football."

Jack sighed. "Come on, Alex. Let's keep looking."

She tugged the blonde boy further along, trying not to think about what had happened last night, nor how Ian Rider could manage to be both intuitively brilliant and utterly clueless.

_I. Affettuoso_

"Are you okay, Jack?" Alex said, staring at her from across the kitchen.

"Fine, Alex."

"Okay," Alex agreed quietly.

Jack swiped one hand across her eyes. With reckless speed, she drizzled marinade from a plastic bowl onto the roast, pushed the roast into the oven, and turned the metal knob to 'bake.' Then she pulled out an onion and began chopping it into tiny pieces.

"Do you want to talk about anything?" Alex asked, still very quietly.

Jack shook her head and kept chopping. The blade knocked against the table again, and again, and again. It was wrong to force Alex to act the adult. He was only ten years old. Ten, for Christ's sake. Ian would never put Alex in such an uncomfortable position. Even if the man was feeling a million times worse than Jack, he would never show it.

But that was Ian.

_Adagio sostenuto_

The next couch they tried out was bright red. Ian raised an eyebrow, probably trying to imagine how the blazing color would fit into his white and black living room. Alex grabbed Jack's hand and tugged her over to it, and they sat down side-by-side.

"This is a good one," Jack decided, and Alex nodded vigorous agreement.

Ian ran a hand along the glossy seatback. "It's red."

"And leather," Jack added, grinning deviously at Ian over Alex's blonde head. "It fits your personality like a glove."

Ian shook his head and kept walking; Jack and Alex exchanged grimaces and followed.

Then, halfway through the maze of geometric furniture, Jack froze. In the corner, there was a grand piano made entirely of glass. The wood and strings inside were clearly visible. Jack couldn't believe that such a fragile instrument could exist—she felt like it would shatter into a million pieces of she touched it.

Ian was looking at the piano, too.

"Play something," Jack suggested.

He glanced at her. "No. I can't."

Alex looked curiously at Ian. "You play the piano?"

"Play something, Ian," Jack said, more insistently. "There aren't many people around. Just act like you're trying it out."

She knew Ian wanted to.

"I haven't played in awhile," he said slowly.

"Oh, come on," Jack said, smirking. "You're talking to a girl who dropped out of piano lessons before her fourteenth birthday."

Ian's face flickered with a ghost of a smile. He walked to the piano, sat down on the dark cushioned bench, and began playing notes that Jack had heard before.

"Ian plays the piano?" Alex repeated, looking perplexedly at Jack.

"I guess so," Jack said, forcing a smile.

"I didn't know that," Alex said.

The music echoed throughout the whole warehouse—dark, slow triplets, and a soft melody, and an almost invisible pause at the end of each phrase—and Jack couldn't tear her eyes away. All of the shoppers glanced quickly toward the piano before turning away and pretending to continue browsing.

"What song is that?" Alex asked.

Jack knew, but she couldn't speak. She had known that Ian would be good—he was, after all, good at everything. But she hadn't known that he was this good.

_II. Agitato_

FWAPP. FWAPP. FWAPP.

Jack chopped four onions in a row, fierce and fast. There was wetness on her cheeks.

"Jack," Alex said, rather carefully, "are you okay?"

"Fine," she said shortly, chopping even faster. "I'm not crying. It's the onions."

"Right." Alex sounded doubtful.

Jack could hear Ian's classical music playing in the living room. She took a deep breath and glanced into the reflection on the oven door. Her own face looked strange; Alex was watching her closely.

"Don't you have homework, Alex?" she added sharply.

He nodded, motioning to the math textbook and note paper on the kitchen table. "I've been working on it for the past quarter of an hour."

Jack flushed; she hadn't even noticed. Alex gave her a small, careful smile and returned most of his attention to improper fractions.

Then the oven's buzzer split the air. Jack waited a few seconds before twisting the buzzer off. Then she listened. From the front room, classical music swelled urgent and delicate. She wondered if Ian was completely absorbed in his financial reports, or if he was listening as raptly to the sounds in the kitchen as she was listening to the sounds in the living room.

_Adagio sostenuto_

When Ian played the last note of the Moonlight Sonata, the whole furniture store collectively let out its breath. Ian stood up, something like apology written in his face. "We're wasting time. Let's keep looking."

"No," Jack blurted out, and then blushed. "I mean—I think you should play one more."

Ian looked slightly amused. "Last time I checked, this wasn't a dive bar."

"Could've fooled me," Jack said blandly. "Anyway, we don't have a piano at home. Who knows when you'll have another chance to play?"

Ian frowned at her, and she folded her arms and set her jaw defiantly. She couldn't explain why it was so important to her, but she needed to hear Ian play again. Just one more song.

Alex was looking annoyed, too.

"One more song," Jack repeated, determined enough—or desperate enough—to bargain. "One more song, and we'll give up on the red couch."

Ian grinned wryly. "One more, then. I suppose I ought to complete the indignity and take requests. Sweet Caroline? The Piano Man? Or perhaps some Bon Jovi?"

He sat again at the piano bench again. His posture was straight, slightly stiff—he didn't sway or close his eyes while he played, and he would never seem particularly emotional. But the music—it was oceans deep. Each note was as clear as water with pebbles sparkling at the bottom.

Ian struck the first strong, solid note, and Jack's stomach swooped.

"What song is that?" Alex said, still frowning.

"Fantasie Impromptu," Jack whispered.

_III. Con fuoco_

Halfway through slicing cucumbers for a salad, when most of the tears had dried on her cheeks, Jack noticed an unusual smell. A campfire? No, not quite—but the air definitely reminded her of camping trips to Tennessee and northern Michigan, where her father had tossed plastic cups into the campfire and watched them burn black—

"Oh, _shit_."

Jack grabbed a pineapple-patterned mitt and opened the oven door. And then she screamed. The oven was on fire, the flames leaping and crackling—and judging by the twisted lump of white plastic beside the blazing roast, it was entirely Jack's fault.

"Ian!" she shouted automatically.

There was smoke everywhere, thick and black and billowing in plumes. It seemed impossible, Jack thought frantically, for a simple roast to create so much smoke. She held her breath, squinted her stinging eyes, and batted at the flames with her oven mitt. This only caused the smoke to get worse. Alex had gone upstairs—if the whole house started on fire, would he be able to get out?

Then Ian was there. "Jack, what happened?"

"I'm not sure," she stammered. "I just—"

Ian's pulled Jack backward, away from the flames, until she was on the other side of the kitchen table. Then his hand released her waist and he grabbed a fire extinguisher from beneath the sink. Jack backed up to the wall, watching, wiping her face. Hopefully he wouldn't notice the tears beneath the soot.

When the fire was out, Ian slammed the oven door. His white shirt had turned gray; so had the kitchen curtains, and Jack suspected that the white couch in the living room hadn't fared well, either.

"Ian," Jack said helplessly, with no clue what she was going to say next.

He turned to face her, his eyes burning like the fire had been, and Jack wondered for a brief moment if he was going to yell at her.

"Next time," he said quietly, "close the oven door and turn off the heat."

_Adagio sostenuto_

The furniture warehouse was hushed, every customer hanging on to every note, while pretending not to be listening. Jack was listening too. But she was somewhere far away.

_IV. Scherzando_

It was a rainy afternoon. A Sunday, quiet and bleak. Jack had been studying in the kitchen, attempting to maintain the charade of law school while debating whether she should make a stir fry or a roast for dinner—but she had been distracted by Ian's classical music, which had been playing loudly in the living room for half an hour.

She poked her head inside, and her forehead creased when she saw Ian lounging on the white sofa, his blue eyes skimming across a manila folder. There was classical music playing from the speakers on the walls.

"I'm trying to study in the kitchen," Jack said, without preamble.

"Studying?" Ian raised an eyebrow. "You haven't graduated law school yet?"

"Part-time student," Jack reminded him flatly. "What are you doing in here, Ian?"

"Working." Ian held up a file, casually covering the label with his thumb. "I have to review the finances from this quarter."

"Okay." Jack folded her arms. "But why do you have to listen to that?"

There was a slight spark of amusement in Ian's eye. "Don't worry, Jack. It's a mix CD—as soon as Beethoven's done, Chopin will start up. That's better, isn't it?"

"Not exactly," Jack said, rolling her eyes. "Listen. If you're going to play classical music in here, I think it's only fair that I crank up some R.E.M. in the kitchen."

"Be my guest."

Jack sighed. She knew he didn't actually expect her to crank up her own music, and she therefore resolved to turn it up all the way—but something held her back. A familiar melody.

"You know it?" Ian asked, watching her curiously.

Jack nodded, wrinkling her nose. "The Moonlight Sonata. I owe a lot to this song—it convinced me to give up piano lessons when I was thirteen."

Ian raised an eyebrow. "Somehow I can't imagine you practicing the piano, Jack."

"That's why I quit," she said, shrugging.

Again, she turned back toward the kitchen, but again, something in the music held her back. The sound was so real that she might have believed Beethoven's ghost was playing on an invisible piano in the living room. The notes were soft, restrained—

"_Quasi una fantasia_," Ian said quietly.

Jack looked at him sharply. "_Quasi_—what is that, Italian?"

Ian nodded, his eyes fixed on the file in his hand. "Most musical notations are written in Italian. _Adagio, agitato, impassionato_—you remember that much from your piano lessons, don't you?"

Jack flushed slightly. "I don't know. In five years, I think I might've practiced my scales and arpeggios, like, twice."

Ian glanced up at her with that trademark half-smile, and then he set his file aside. "_Quasi una fantasia_ means—"

"—Like a fantasy," Jack said, taking a reluctant step into the living room. "I know. It's all Latin-based."

"Exactly right," Ian said. Then, seeming to realize that he sounded like an instructor speaking to a student, he laughed dryly. "I might as well give you the full lesson. Beethoven finished the piece in 1801. It was originally just called the Piano Sonata in C-sharp minor, but it took on the name 'Moonlight Sonata' when a critic compared it to moonlight shining on Lake Lucerne."

"How the hell do you know that?" Jack said, staring at him.

Ian shrugged. "I took piano lessons, too."

"Of course you did." Jack smiled slightly. "Any more random trivia I should know?"

Ian raised an eyebrow. "I could tell you the key, the history, the customary tempo, the critical acclaim, and the exact date of its debut. If you'd like."

"How about the cliffnotes version?"

Ian grinned slightly. "Well—the adagio movement is the one we're listening to right now. Beethoven was frustrated by its success—he knew he had written better things—but he must've been pleased, too, because he dedicated the work to one of his students."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"You sound surprised."

"Well, it's a hell of a song to dedicate to some kid who probably couldn't even play it."

Ian stared at her. "We're talking about _Beethoven_, Jack. His students were prodigies. Serious musicians. Not six-year-olds plucking through Mary Had a Little Lamb."

Jack's face prickled unpleasantly. "Right. So—um, who was the student?"

"Countess Giulietta Guicciardi," Ian said, closing his eyes for a moment as the music swelled to a subtle crescendo. "Seventeen years old." He opened his eyes. "He was in love with her."

Jack stared at him. "Wow." She had never heard that story—in fact, she had never heard anything about the Moonlight Sonata except criticism, which her instructor had dished out relentlessly. Jack was clumsy and robotic; she never paid attention to the key signature; she simultaneously buried the melody and beat it into the ground . . .

Ian looked at her again, his lip twitching. "I know what you're thinking, Jack."

"Oh really?" Jack said, arching an eyebrow.

"I think so. The curious part of you wants to stay and listen to the rest of the song, because you've never listened to it properly in your life, but the stubborn part of you wants to run back to the kitchen and prove to me that eighties rock is far superior."

Jack rolled her eyes exasperatedly. "You're right."

Ian's expression didn't change. "Your choice."

But it wasn't. Not really. With a grudging sigh, Jack sat next to him on the sofa.

"I guess it couldn't hurt to hear the ending."

_Adagio sostenuto_

The furniture store held its breath. Alex was saying something. Jack wanted to listen, but she couldn't hear him—she could only hear the music, and the silence, and the moment she had lost.

_V. Dolce con brio_

"What did you think?" Ian asked, pressing the stop button on the CD player.

"Sad," Jack said truthfully, the final chord of the Moonlight Sonata still resonating somewhere inside her.

Ian's blue eyes clouded for a split second before they met Jack's green ones.

"When I was growing up, I used to play the Moonlight Sonata all the time," he said. "It seemed so calming, and—"

He hesitated.

"Hopeful," Jack supplied.

Ian nodded, sparing her with a rueful smile. "I was young then."

"You're still young, Ian."

But even as she said it, Jack knew it wasn't true.

She and Ian sat in silence for a few moments. It wasn't awkward or uncomfortable; it was perfect. Unbreakable.

"Countess Giulietta must've been a hell of a woman," Jack said finally.

She started to stand up, but Ian touched her arm. "Hang on a second."

She bounced back down onto the white cushion. At the same moment, both she and Ian became aware of his hand on her arm—he let go quickly and stood up.

"There's one more song I want you to listen to," he said. "If I'm going to convert you to classical, I might as well do it properly."

"Might as well," Jack agreed, grinning ruefully.

Ian crossed the room, ejected the Beethoven CD, and inserted another one. "Chopin," he said, over his shoulder.

"Oh good," Jack said sarcastically. "My favorite."

Ian at down next to Jack again, just close enough that the back of his hand brushed the back of hers—Jack realized, faintly, how strange it was that she noticed this detail—and then he pushed play.

A strong, solid note.

"What's it called?" Jack asked, as the song began.

"Fantasie Impromptu."

_-Intermezzo-_

It was too much.

The music flooded the warehouse, and suddenly Jack was back on the white sofa, listening to minor notes, starting slow, collapsing into a fast, impatient flurry—.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

"Just listen," Ian said, grinning slightly.

Then she was in the warehouse again, and Ian was playing the next layer, delicate and heartbreaking, lifting off with invisible harmony—

"How can he play this?" Alex said, stunned. "He said music lessons were a waste of—"

"Shh," Jack whispered, squeezing Alex's hand a little too tightly. "Just listen."

And she was in the living room, and there were new tones, blacker, heavier—triplets floating across the surface, shading darker and darker—

His skin upon her skin. Just a touch.

_The warehouse—music dropping off, a breath, a decrescendo—_

"Are you okay, Jack?" Alex asked, looking up at her with concern. Being Alex, he didn't mention that her grip was nearly shattering the bones in his hand.

_The living room. The same flurry, rising higher and higher, each note vibrating with urgency—_

Ian was too close. Or perhaps she was. He could smell the pineapple on her hair. She could see the flecks of gray in his eyes. Neither could remember who closed the distance, or why.

"Ian—" she said, without knowing what she was saying.

Then the front door opened.

Jack jumped backward, as though she'd been shocked by a thousand volts; Ian didn't blink, didn't even flinch.

"Alex," he said easily. "How was school?"

Alex dropped his bookbag next to the white couch. "The same."

His brown eyes moved from Jack to Ian. He blinked, and Jack almost cringed—she didn't want Alex to know that something had almost happened, mostly because of the confusing, humiliating "almost"—and at the same time, she felt sure that Alex knew. Probably better than she did.

Alex disappeared to the kitchen to make half a peanut butter and jam sandwich, and Jack blinked and looked at Ian. He wasn't looking back.

_Adagio sostenuto_

"Home, sweet home," Jack announced, propping open the front door.

The faint smell of charred plastic wafted outside. Ian and Alex carried the new couch inside and put it in place of the old, ruined one. Alex's end dragged across the floor, but Ian didn't admonish him. When the couch was in place, Ian studied it for a long moment and shook his head slightly. Then he looked around for Alex.

"Where'd he go?"

Jack bit her lip. "Um—up to his room. To pout, I think."

Ian raised an eyebrow. "Alex doesn't pout."

"Not like other kids," Jack agreed, "but sometimes he disappears to his room and works on something productive for hours. It's his version of pouting."

"Right," Ian said, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "I suppose you ought to fill me in on what I did wrong this time."

Jack smiled wryly. "I'm no expert—"

"Don't be modest, Jack. It doesn't suit you."

"—But from something Alex said, I get the feeling that he asked you for music lessons a few years ago. And you said no."

Ian understood immediately. Jack knew instantly, from the look on his face, that he didn't want to talk about it.

"I like this couch better than the old one," she decided, glancing quickly at Ian. "It's—"

"Cozy?" he said dryly. "Welcoming? Not even remotely headache-inducing?"

Jack rolled her eyes. "No one forced you to buy it, you know."

Ian raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Sure. I may have pressured you shamelessly, but you made the purchase yourself."

Ian folded his arms. "Jack, please. As a law student, do you honestly believe that defense would hold up in court?"

"Absolutely."

"What about coercion?"

"What about free will?" Jack countered.

"I would argue blackmail. Unspoken, but implied."

"I would respond that, under section 21-1 of the Theft Act of 1968, your argument is bullshit."

Ian regarded her coolly. "Right. Then I would have to argue that you guilted me into it, with a series of subtle manipulations--people just don't give you enough credit."

"In that case, you're the guilty one."

Ian held her gaze for a long moment, drilling into Jack's consciousness and making her stomach squirm—and then he laughed.

"Sometimes I think about how peaceful my life would be if a different babysitter had answered the advert."

"And how boring," Jack said, smirking.

She knew, of course, that Ian meant his words as a compliment. And they both knew that no one else—no bright-eyed student or charming old grandma or professional nanny—would have tolerated Ian's prolonged absences, or the unexplained moments, or the enormous responsibility of what Jack did every day.

"Right," Ian said, serious now. "I should talk to Alex." He paused in the doorway and glanced back at the bright red leather couch, blaring color in his neutral living room. "What do you really think of it?"

"It's refreshing," she said firmly.

He nodded. Then, a ghost of a smile.

"So are you, Jack."

He disappeared upstairs, and Jack sat down on the couch and thought about yesterday and tried not to cry.

_VI. Sotto_

Jack could hear Alex moving around in the kitchen, fixing his peanut butter sandwich. She took a deep breath and tried not to look at Ian. Nothing had happened. Nothing, except that two people had sat down and listened to a piece of music. But Jack couldn't stop thinking about the moonlight on Lake Lucerne.

"Ian," she said, "what—"

"Nothing," he said calmly.

Jack glared at him, eyes smoldering. "What was my question?"

"Never mind, Jack," he said quietly. "I won't keep you here any longer—the song is over."

He opened the file of financial data, and the CD moved to the next track, and Jack shot to her feet and stormed to the kitchen, where she would accidentally set the oven on fire.

_~Fin~_

_Rough translations of musical terms. _

_**I. Affettuoso:** with feeling. _

_**II. Agitato:** agitated _

_**III. Con fuoco: **with fire _

_**IV. Scherzando: **playful _

_**V. Dolce con brio:** sweetly, with spirit _

_**VI. Sotto:** subdued _

_**Intermezzo:** a connecting movement_

_**Adagio sostenuto: **slow and sustained_

**YAY! What did you think? Review, pretty please--tell me if you liked it, or hated it, or thought it was just plain weird. (grin) Don't worry, I can take it. I'm just starting to learn Fantasie Impromptu on the piano (VERY slowly), so that's where the idea came from. The song ends quietly and ambiguously, like a fantasy--I thought it sort of suited Jack and Ian's relationship. **

**Thank you to the following amazing reviewers: Neptune's Violin, Emmy-loo, EwanLuvr4Ever, keatlin, DarkElements10, JaBoyYa, Von, EternalFlame105, Jusmine, alocine, St. Danger, Second daughter of Eve, Ferrelyn, whatever95, ImiTation, APenName, Master of Minds, Tobi X, Sylaxas, Snuffle, True Colours, Lilly Romanov, riderfan, and jesusfreak100percent. I haven't had a chance to respond to reviews yet (it's that troublesome Real Life getting in the way again...) but I truly appreciate every review, and without all of you I wouldn't have a clue what I was doing. (grin) Thanks so much to everyone!!!**


	9. Through the Looking Glass

**:) This chapter's a little different--not much action, but it does give a good glimpse into what Ian's thinking. A few people had mentioned wanting to see a chapter from his POV. **

**Enjoy!**

A key clicked in the door.

Jack Starbright was staring into the dipping candle flame, wondering how the hell she'd ever manage to squeeze a remedial class into her schedule next term, when the doorknob started to turn. She gasped and sat up straight, tucking the grade report behind her back. Moments later, Ian Rider appeared in the doorway, his face hidden in a lacework of shadow.

"You're awake," he said, hanging his coat by the door.

Jack turned the page of the book she was pretending to read. "Nothing gets past you."

Ian smiled, a sliver of his face illuminated by candlelight. He was home from Pakistan, and he was carrying nothing—no bag, no briefcase, no souvenirs. Jack was too tired to ask. She turned to the next page of _Through the Looking Glass_.

"Are you okay?" Ian asked slowly.

"I'm fine."

"You're sitting in the dark, Jack."

"Yeah."

"At four in the morning."

"Yep."

"With a candle."

Jack tried not to laugh. "I'm fine, Ian. Just couldn't sleep. And for your information, candles can be very comforting."

"Right. The soothing scent of—" He breathed deeply. "Artificial sweetener?"

Jack pouted. "Vanilla cupcake." Grudgingly, she blew out the candle and flicked on the dim ceiling light. "How was Pakistan?"

Ian shrugged. "Scenic."

"Plenty of desert?" she guessed. "Danger, intrigue—"

"Not exactly, but the boardroom cooler did run out of water during quite a tense meeting."

"That does sound dangerous."

Ian nodded. "Very."

Jack laughed. "You're unbelievable, Ian."

He flashed her a quick grin—he'd moved into the next, slightly darker room, but she could still see the glint of amusement in his eyes. "Do you want me to stay up with you?" he offered. "It'll be morning soon—I can make breakfast, for a change."

Jack shook her head firmly, turning the page again. "I'm just going to finish this chapter. You catch up on some rest."

"If you're sure."

"I—" She faked a yawn. "I'm sure."

Ian hesitated for only a moment.

"Good night, Jack."

"Night."

Jack watched as the young man with tired eyes disappeared upstairs. As soon his footsteps faded and his bedroom door clicked shut, she struck a match, relit the candle, and absently burned a stray hair in the flame. Had she fooled Ian into believing that nothing was wrong? Probably not. But it was impossible to tell—and it was much easier to pretend that she had.

ARARAR

"_And if you're not good directly," she added, "I'll put you through into the Looking-glass House. How would you like THAT?"_

ARARAR

Ian Rider woke up slowly.

His arms were spread-eagled and chained to the wall, in the shape of a cross. On the other side of the cell, Jack was crying. Alex stood apart, his brown eyes quiet and serious.

"I'm sorry," Ian whispered.

He coughed. Blood. His torturer stepped forward, stroking the blade of a carving knife—and ten-year-old Alex aimed a gun with both hands. Not at the torturer, but at Ian.

"This way you won't talk," Alex explained, without remorse.

"Alex," Ian rasped. "I have to tell you and Jack—have to explain—"

"No." The little boy shook his head.

"But I know I can trust you. I know I owe you—I owe Jack—"

Alex shook his head. "Don't, Ian." He steadied the gun. "Don't say—" He cocked the gun. "A word."

Ian tried to speak again, but his throat had closed off—he couldn't breathe, couldn't make a sound. Alex Rider smiled. His pale, innocent face split into a bloody smirk, and suddenly Alex was every man Ian had ever killed, and they all pulled the trigger together, and Ian died in a flash of white light.

And then he woke up.

"BREAKFAST!" Jack screamed.

Ian sat up in bed, blinking against the dazzling sunlight. He could hear the chink of glassware and the thud of Alex's footsteps on the stairs. It was nine in the morning. Saturday.

Very quickly, Ian's heartbeat returned to normal. He stood up and drew the shades—for which his aching head thanked him—and studied his reflection above the dresser. His face was tired. Fatigued. He frowned at the bruise on his cheek, the cut over his eye, and wondered, as usual, why it was so damn difficult for international terrorists to hit him somewhere less visible. There were also bandages wrapped around his upper arm—the bullet had only been a ricochet, but he wasn't supposed to remove the bandages until tomorrow. He'd have to hide the injury beneath his sleeve.

"GETTING COLD!" Jack shouted from downstairs.

Five minutes later, when Ian entered the kitchen, Alex was already halfway through his second bowl of oatmeal. He barely glanced up at Ian.

"You're back so soon." The ten-year-old boy blinked. "We almost didn't notice you'd gone."

"By that, Alex means he missed you," Jack said wryly.

"It was a quick conference," Ian agreed, dropping into the chair next to Alex. "Once we'd worked through the contractual paperwork—well, you wouldn't care to hear the details, I'm sure."

"And you wouldn't tell us anyway," Jack added lightly.

As she leaned over to scoop Ian a bowl of oatmeal, her gaze landed on the bruise under his eye. Her green eyes widened; Ian tensed involuntarily. Then, to his surprise, Jack grabbed a spoon and passed him his bowl without a word.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," she replied softly. Then, more playfully: "It's not the best breakfast in the world, but I've got a long-standing date with the grocery store."

"Yeah, she's had a few of those this week," Alex chimed in.

Ian raised an eyebrow. "Grocery stores?"

"No," Alex said, straight-faced. "Dates."

"Well, they aren't exactly hard to come by," Ian mused. "Dates grow on trees, don't they?"

"Not in London, according to Jack."

Jack rolled her eyes heavenward. "Oh, leave me alone. Wouldn't you guys have more fun torturing a small child, or drowning a kitten, or something?"

She sounded as sarcastic as ever, but there was a slight, distracted sadness behind her voice.

"We were just kidding, Jack," Alex said carefully.

Jack nodded. "I know, Alex." Exhaling softly, she lowered her eyes and sprinkled brown sugar into the dregs of her bowl. Then, abruptly, she scooted back her chair, rinsed her bowl in the sink, and disappeared quietly upstairs. No explanation, no good-byes—she was just gone.

Ian raised his eyebrows at Alex.

"Did something happen?"

Alex nodded. "Yesterday, she brought in the post, and then—"

"What?"

"I—don't know," Alex admitted. "She wouldn't tell me. But she spent the whole day acting too _normal, _and I spent the whole day trying to make her feel better even though I didn't know what was wrong."

"Too normal?"

"Yeah."

"Well, Jack's a grown woman," Ian said absently, glancing toward the empty staircase. "We have to respect her privacy."

Alex stared at his uncle, eyebrows raised. "O-kay."

Upstairs, the faint rock beat of Thin Lizzy started up in Jack's bedroom. Alex and Ian exchanged glances again. In that moment, Jack wasn't a housekeeper, or a baby-sitter—she was Alex's big sister and Ian's closest friend. In fact, after John Rider, Ian didn't think he'd ever been so close with anyone.

"I'll talk to her," Ian said finally. "But first she needs some time to herself."

He and Alex listened for a moment longer. Through the ceiling, the Thin Lizzy song had changed into a soft piano melody—Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_.

"I'll talk to her," Ian repeated, swallowing hard.

Alex looked curiously at him. "What can you say to her?"

Ian forced a smile and took a bite of oatmeal. _Not enough, Alex. Not nearly enough._

ARARAR

Jack was trying to sleep.

_Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall._

The Lewis Carroll book was turned upside-down beneath her pillow, and the law school transcript was half-crumpled on her desk.

_Humpty Dumpty had a great fall._

She took a deep, shaky breath. At breakfast, Ian had been as cool and collected as ever. He and Alex were clearly worried, but they were too good to pry. And what could she say, what could she possibly tell them, when they were the source of the problem?

_And all the King's horses and all the King's men . . . _

"Jack?"

"Ian!" Jack eyes flew open, and she rolled out of bed, brushing back strands of red hair. _Through the Looking Glass _fell to the floor, its pages springing shut. "Um—I was just taking a nap."

"It's time for dinner," Ian said, nodding at the clock.

It was seven p.m. Jack's face flushed.

"I still haven't made it to the grocery store," she admitted, smoothing her rumpled hair.

"Good. I was hoping we might go out tonight."

"Out?" Jack blinked. "Like—to a restaurant?"

Ian's blue eyes sparkled. "Actually, I was thinking of taking you and Alex out to La Veta—you know, the club with the red strobe lights and the shot-glass chandelier—but I suppose a restaurant would work, too."

Jack smirked and hit him across the upper arm. For a split second, she thought she saw pain twist his features, but it quickly transformed into a self-mocking smile.

"Right," he said. "Will you be ready to go in thirty minutes?"

"Twenty," Jack said, yanking open her closet. "Little black dress, or jeans and a T-shirt?"

"That depends. Where do you want to go?"

Jack hesitated. "Where does Alex want to go?"

"He said he wants whatever you want."

She smiled. "Well . . . nothing too extravagant, but with a dress code and candles at every table." She paused. "And pizza would be nice."

"Give me five minutes," Ian promised.

He disappeared into the hallway, and Jack flung open her closet door and wondered what she'd been so worried about. She had a steady job_—_but she'd never received a single paycheck_—_and a nice enough home—although, technically, she just owned one room—and a secure future—except that she'd be homeless and jobless if Ian ever decided he didn't need her anymore.

Unbidden, her worries rushed back in full sound and color.

ARARAR

In his office, Ian dialed the familiar number and spoke first: "I need reservations for three at Ristorante Fiore."

Silence. The clock ticked with deliberation.

"Rider," Tulip Jones said finally, "I think you—you hit the wrong speed dial."

"Reservations for three," Ian repeated firmly. "Within twenty minutes, if possible. It's a nice place, almost impossible to get same-day reservations. Unless you happen to be the government."

Mrs. Jones, the deputy head of Special Operations at MI6, hesitated a moment longer. "This doesn't strike you as an abuse of power?"

"Not at all."

"You're sure you're not mistaken?"

"You've known me ten years," Ian said pleasantly. "When have I ever made a mistake?"

Mrs. Jones could've come up with a few examples, but she was too delicate, or perhaps too self-preserving, to do so.

Ian smiled at her resigned silence. "I knew I could count on you, Tulip."

"Right." She sighed. "Who are these lucky dinner guests?"

"Alex," Ian said, "and—our housekeeper."

"The Starbright girl?" Ian could hear the audible click-clack of a computer keyboard on the other end. "We have a file on her."

"Of course you do," Ian mumbled.

"Hasn't her Visa expired yet?"

"No," he said sharply.

"Hm." Mrs. Jones's voice was sweeter and deadlier than honey. "Your nephew is getting older—does he still require a nanny to look after him?"

"I'll die before you deport Jack," Ian said flatly. "Let's focus on dinner plans, shall we?"

Five minutes later, Ian hung up the phone and stepped back into the corridor, locking the office door behind him. He didn't feel even remotely guilty about taking advantage of his special status at MI6—if he thought Jack would've preferred having the whole restaurant to herself, he'd have arranged for that, too.

"What do you think?" Jack chirped, from behind him.

Ian turned around and tried not to stare. Jack stood in her bedroom doorway, draped in a sheer white chemise, her legs long and bare. She held a black cocktail dress in one hand and a shimmery purple blouse in the other.

"What's the restaurant like? Which one should I wear?"

"Either would work fine," Ian said, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on her face.

Jack suddenly became aware of her attire, or the lack thereof—she flushed and darted back into her bedroom. The door slammed behind her, and Ian heard her swearing under her breath. He hid his smile. Not for the first time, he wondered how bland life would've been, missions and all, if Jack had never shown up on his doorstep.

ARARAR

"Wait," Jack said anxiously.

She had frozen like a statue on the cobblestone street, her hands tucked into her coat; Ian took her gently by the elbow.

"You look perfect, Jack."

"How much should I tip the coat check? And the sommelier? And—"

"It's all my treat. Take a deep breath."

"Right." She inhaled sharply. "I don't speak Italian. How can I communicate?"

Ian suppressed a smile. "Considering the fact that we're in the middle of London, I'd say English might be a good start."

She flushed. "Yeah. Good."

She, Ian, and Alex stood outside Ristorante Fiore, beneath the rose-colored twilight. The restaurant wasn't Ian's favorite—the blaring Italian flag and the too-neat ivy clinging to the redbrick gave the place an air of contrived, over-the-top authenticity. But the food was good.

Plus, Ian was almost certain that Ristorante Fiore had no connections with the Italian mob.

The doorman welcomed them inside with a polite "_Benvenuti_," and arched his eyebrows slightly at Jack—she smirked and glanced back at Ian. "Charming."

Ian suppressed a smile. In the dim stone entranceway, a man in a burgundy jacket reached to help Jack with her coat.

"_Molte grazie_," Ian said, his eyes flicking from the bitten-down nails and tobacco stains at the man's fingertips to the nervous twitch around his mouth.

"_Prego._" The man reached into his inner pocket—Ian's muscles tensed automatically—and then the man was attaching a numbered tag to each jacket. Ian clapped the man's arm in thanks as he passed him by.

"Thanks," Jack said brightly.

It was the first time Jack had removed her coat since they'd left the house. Her dress was emerald-green silk, with a plunging neckline—her shoulders were pale and smooth, her throat adorned with a simple pearl necklace—and Ian realized that he'd been drinking her in for a few moments too long. Clearing his throat, he took her arm and led her inside.

"This is fun," Jack whispered, grinning.

They followed the maitre' d to a quiet table with a candle flickering in the center. Jack immediately grabbed the menu—it was all in Italian.

"How the hell do you order this stuff?" she muttered.

"I think—" Alex hesitated.

"What was that, Alex?" said Ian, who was automatically counting the exits in case of an emergency.

"The man who took our coats—"

_Main entrance, side door, storeroom behind the bar . . . _

"—I think he's—" Alex lowered his voice to a whisper.

_Restrooms, swinging kitchen doors—_

"—A pickpocket."

Jack blinked. "What?"

"He took the wallet from your purse, Jack," Alex said seriously.

"What?!" Jack dug into her purse. "Oh my God—you're right!"

"Jack," Ian said quickly.

She shot to her feet, eyes blazing with cold fury. "I'll just be a minute—"

"_Jack_." Hastily, Ian produced Jack's wallet from his pocket. Rather than panicking her or setting off her anger, he'd been planning to return the wallet quietly to her purse as soon as he got the chance.

Jack stared at him. "Where'd you get that?"

_The coat check swiped it, and I swiped it back._

"You—ah, you must've dropped it. I noticed it on the floor."

"Oh." Jack squinted suspiciously at him. "Why didn't you say something?"

_Good question. _"I didn't want—"

Across the room, an athletic, dark-haired man in a black shirt sat hunched over the bar, draining a bottle of amoretto. The man seemed to notice Ian at the same moment as Ian noticed him. Their eyes met in the reflection over the bar. Then, without missing a beat, the man continued whatever story he'd been telling the bartender.

"—to worry you," Ian finished smoothly.

"Well." Jack blinked. "Okay."

A couple years ago, she would've pressed the point for the rest of dinner. Now, with just a flicker of reluctance, she slid the wallet back into her purse and returned her gaze to the menu.

"What toppings do you guys want?" she murmured.

"Anything except olives." Ian slid back his chair and folded the wine list. "Something from the bar, Jack?"

"Not unless Alex wants something," Jack said, smirking.

Alex sat up straight, with feigned excitement; Ian smiled wryly. "Enjoy your orange juice, Alex."

He crossed the room, casual and unhurried, secretly aware of every head that turned, every door that opened and closed. At the bar, he sat next to the dark-haired man without glancing at him.

"A dry martini," Ian said clearly. "One. In a deep champagne goblet." (1)

There was a long pause. The bartender choked down his exasperation and grabbed a bottle of gin; the dark-haired man drained the rest of his amoretto—Ian waited, patient, motionless—

Then the man snorted. "Cute, Rider."

They turned to face each other, Ian grinning wryly. "I thought so."

"Aren't you supposed to be on assignment?"

"Business conference in Pakistan," Ian said. "Just debriefed last night."

"Business conference, eh?" The man's dark eyes glinted, and he waved at the bartender. "Oy—cancel that last, and get us a few rounds of single-malt scotch."

Ian shook his head. "I can't stick around and chat, Geoff. My nephew and my—his babysitter are waiting at our table."

"Yeah." Agent Geoff Lindell's smile faded. "I'd noticed that."

Ian glanced back at the table. Jack was watching curiously, and when he caught her eye, she didn't pretend to look away. Her green dress shimmered like the night sky with tiny dots of candlelight. Ian cleared his throat.

"How've you been, Geoff?"

Geoff smiled grimly. His dark eyes glinted with something hard and familiar. "Oh, I'm grand. For a lower level sales associate, I get around quite a lot." He glanced at Jack. "Apparently, so do you."

Ian frowned. He and Geoff worked for the same department of MI6, but Ian only saw him occasionally, and heard of him even less. The man moved in his own quiet bubble of self-imposed solitude, and, sometimes, of bitterness.

_He probably sees you the same way, _Ian reminded himself.

The bartender dropped two glasses onto the bar, filled them with scotch, and left the bottle. Ian glanced back at Jack and Alex.

Of course, Geoff noticed. "That's a slippery slope, my friend," he muttered.

Ian blinked. "Sorry?"

He should've known better than to play dumb with a spy. Geoff smirked again and drained his shot glass. "There's no happily-ever-after in our line of work. I believe you taught me that."

Ian sighed. "She takes care of my nephew, Geoff. She's a friend."

"Right. I'm sure you look at all your friends like that."

Ian didn't rise to the bait. In fact, he had no other friends. He and Geoff sat in silence for a few minutes, Ian scanning the restaurant in the wall-mirror, Geoff gulping down half the bottle of scotch. Apart from a faint glitter in his eye, the alcohol hadn't fazed the man at all.

"What about my brother?" Ian said finally.

Geoff laughed harshly. "That's right; I'd forgotten. Your big bro, the infamous John Rider—ten times better than you'll ever be."

Ian nodded coolly. "Just think where that puts you."

Geoff laughed again, but then his face sobered. "Your brother tried for the fairy tale ending, and look how that turned out."

Ian's face didn't register any kind of reaction, but he swallowed hard. Jack was staring at him, her green eyes narrowed, as though trying to read Ian's thoughts through the back of his head. Alex was watching in the reflection on his spoon.

"Happiness is not in the job description," Geoff said firmly.

He gripped the shot glass and emptied the numbing alcohol down his throat; Ian watched him.

"Best of luck with that," he said finally.

He pushed his brimming glass toward Geoff, stood up, and returned to the table. Jack and Alex exchanged furtive glances, and then Jack spoke up.

"Who was that, Ian?"

"Sales associate from the bank," Ian said. "Lower level."

He took a deep, calming breath. He could almost see John Rider at the alter, his back straight and proud—could almost see Helen, dazzling in pure-white, her face radiant with happiness—but, stronger and clearer than the faded past, he could see Geoff Lindell laughing without humor, without irony, without anything but darkness in his eyes.

ARARAR

_You can just see a little PEEP of the passage in Looking-glass House, if you leave the door of our drawing-room wide open: and it's very like our passage as far as you can see, only you know it may be quite different on beyond._

ARARAR

That night, when Jack heard a footstep in the doorway, she didn't bother to whip out her book and pretend she'd been reading.

"Dinner was fun," she said softly. "Thanks, Ian."

He pulled up a chair and sat across from her. "You're more than welcome." In the candlelight, he looked more tired than usual—but maybe, Jack mused, it was just an effect of the shadows.

"It was expensive," she remarked. "Are you sure you don't want me to pay—"

"Stop looking for things to worry about, Jack," Ian said gently.

"Well." She drummed on the tabletop. "I know you've been wondering why I'm acting like a moody teenager."

He sighed, and she didn't doubt her judgment this time—she'd never seen him so tired.

"I think I know what's bothering you," Ian said, "and it's more than just a failing grade."

Jack winced, but didn't ask how he'd known. Another long red hair was clinging to her sleeve, and she burned it in the flame, her eyes unfocused. Ian watched the flame and waited patiently, and the clock ticked into the silence.

"I just—" Jack hesitated.

"You know you can tell me, Jack."

Slowly, she met his eyes. "I was going to change the world, Ian."

He nodded. He understood, and had already understood before she spoke a word—but despite this, or maybe because of it, Jack wanted to tell him herself. The words poured out.

"My dreams were always just crazy enough to come true. I was going to go to save the world, like Wonder Woman, or Captain Planet—and when I got older and figured out that superpowers might not be the most logical route, I decided to become a lawyer instead."

"Makes sense," Ian said, his lip twitching.

Jack didn't smile. "I was going to keep my integrity. I was going to study environmental law, and save the rainforest, and take on big cities and bloodthirsty corporations, and I was going to paint in my spare time, and then—"

She broke off, her face flushed.

"And then you came to London," Ian finished quietly, "and needed somewhere to live."

Jack sighed. She grabbed the nearest book and flipped through the pages, just to keep her hands busy; the illustrations flipped past—a giant mushroom like a broken umbrella, the Cheshire Cat with secrets behind his tantalizing grin, a girl falling down the rabbit hole with no idea where she'd end up. Jack's fingers tightened.

"This was supposed to be a part-time job," she whispered.

Ian nodded. "It's okay, Jack. I never expected you to stay for so long."

Jack took a deep breath. "The problem isn't the fact that I've stayed. It's _why_ I've stayed. Not because I wanted somewhere to live, and not because you pay for everything I need—those are just happy coincidences."

Ian nodded again. He could feel her slipping away, and he knew he'd be lost without her. But he also knew he wouldn't ask her to stay any longer.

"I understand," he said.

"No." Suddenly, Jack's eyes were blazing. "I don't think you do, Ian. I failed a class. _Failed_ it. The grade report came in the mail, and I looked at it, and do you know what I felt?"

"I think I can guess," Ian said.

Jack snapped the book shut. "Nothing," she hissed.

Ian blinked. For once, she'd thrown him. "What?"

"I felt _nothing_, Ian. I failed an important class, a class required to graduate, and my next thought was whether I'd have time to stop by the grocery store before Alex's karate lesson." She shook her head. "When the hell did this happen?"

Ian shook his head. "Jack—"

"When did I give up?"

Ian shook his head. He remembered Jack staying up all night to make Christmas for Alex. He remembered her gently cleaning the scratch on Alex's knee, and holding him tight after the World Trade Center collapsed. He remembered her reading to Alex every night. Remembered her saving Alex's life—and risking her own—when two of Ian's enemies broke into the house.

And he remembered the curiosity, the disapproval, the defiance in her eyes.

"You didn't give up," Ian said, his blue eyes serious. "Not by a long shot."

Jack sighed. She'd changed from the green dress into gray sweatpants and a black Grateful Dead T-shirt; the careful waves in her red hair had lost their shape; her eyes were rimmed with black smudges. She looked beautiful.

_That's a slippery slope, my friend._

"I just want to find where I'm supposed to be. I just want to be happy."

It was strange. For the last couple days, Ian had been thinking the same thing.

ARARAR

_And she tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing._

ARARAR

Alex was asleep; Ian had gone up to bed. Jack picked up the book she'd been pretending to read all day.

"But it's no use going back to yesterday," she said softly, "because I was a different person then."

She shelved the book and blew out the vanilla-scented candle.

(1) James Bond quote

**So... :) A few people have emailed me, politely asking where I am, and a few others have emailed me asking where the hell I am. I'm still here, I promise! Been having family issues, and financial issues, which sadly have taken priority over fanfiction (which is indescribably more fun). Now it's summer, I'm going to try to start updating things again (though I can't make any promises!)**

**If you have a moment, please drop me a line and let me know what you thought. :)**


	10. When It Rains

**New chapter, whee! :) Enjoy!**

Jack stood at the kitchen window, gazing out at the sun-drenched backyard. It was Saturday morning, just early enough to see rays of golden light peeking out from behind the neighboring buildings. She could hear the voice of a weatherman from the living room:

"—And Londoners can expect thunderstorms, ranging from mild to severe, as the day progresses—"

Jack strode impatiently into the living room, flipped off the television, and flopped down on the red leather couch. Twenty-five. She could no longer claim membership in the elite "early-twenties" subculture, could no longer make excuses for not knowing what to do with her life. She could no longer blame mistakes on being fresh out of college, and could no longer convince herself that she had plenty of time to find a career and a future and a man who might love her.

She was officially a woman in her mid-twenties.

"Shit," she muttered

The front door banged open and Alex and Ian came inside, both of them wide-awake and slightly out-of-breath, dressed in loose-fitting athletic clothes.

"Happy birthday, Jack!" Alex announced, before anyone could speak.

Ian grinned wryly at Jack over Alex's blonde head. "Don't look so cheerful, Jack. You make the rest of us look bad."

Jack laughed, and it was as though the dazzling sunshine had flooded her mind—every negative thought evaporated. "I'll try to work on that."

"You're pretty old, aren't you, Jack?" Alex said, with mock innocence.

"I am," Jack agreed, folding her arms. "Too old for Easy-Mac dinners and sidewalk chalk. Maybe even too old to play laser tag in the backyard."

"I give it three days," Ian said in an undertone.

Alex laughed; Ian, still grinning, slid past Jack to wash his dirt-caked hands in the kitchen sink. His lip twitched when he saw her indignant expression on the reflection over the stove. "Any international disasters while we were outside, Jack?"

"Nope," Jack said, yawning, "unless you count my mom calling to make sure I received her happy-birthday card in the mail. She asked what the 'Rider boys' were up to, and I told her you guys were outside beating the shit out of each other."

Ian stared at her. "I don't know if that's the best—"

"Oh, relax." Jack smirked. "I pretended you guys had gone for a morning jog. I don't think my mom would be too crazy about the idea of a thirty-year-old black belt sparring with a kid."

"A few years ago, you wouldn't have liked the idea, either," Ian said, drying his hands on a towel.

Jack shrugged. "That was before I saw Alex nearly take your head off with a roundhouse kick." She opened the pantry and scanned the shelves, smirking to herself at the identical expressions of surprise on Ian and Alex's faces. "What do you think? Banana pancakes?"

ARARAR

A few hours later, Ian pulled his glossy blue Jaguar convertible into the bank parking lot. Jack sat in the passenger's seat, the wind ruffling her hair. She, Alex, and Ian were headed to the river to have a picnic, but first Jack had asked to stop at the bank and deposit the check her mom had sent her.

"We could've just stopped at the Royal and General, Jack," Ian said.

"We could've," Jack agreed, rummaging for the check in her red knit purse. "And then one of those administration pod-people could've shipped you off on another business trip, probably to Antarctica, or Ohio or something."

"Ohio?" Alex said, his lip twitching.

"It's my birthday, Ian," Jack said firmly. "I'm depositing this check at _my _bank, and then we're driving out to the river and having a picnic lunch, your pod people be damned."

"Now they're _my _pod people?"

Jack grabbed the picnic basket and tossed it at him. Ian caught it—when he looked up again, Jack had climbed out, swinging her legs over the car door, and trotted up to the bank entrance.

"I'll just be a second," she called over her shoulder. "Keep the engine running."

ARARAR

"Today will be fun," Ian muttered, watching Jack's back as she approached the bank entrance,

Alex looked at the picnic basket. "Do you think the cake is okay?"

"I think—" Ian winced. He and Alex had baked Jack her favorite cake, hidden it in a white cardboard box, and sneaked it into the bottom compartment of the picnic basket—and that was before Jack stuffed the basket with chicken salad sandwiches, sliced watermelon, pomegranate seeds, and a bag of barbecue chips.

"I think it's probably squished," Alex said half-heartedly.

"And the icing's probably melted," Ian admitted. "All for the best, I suppose."

He checked his watch and glanced at the bank. Half past eleven, a prime business hour, but no one seemed to be coming or going. Jack had just pulled open the glass door and disappeared into the front vestibule.

Ian frowned. The bank's shades were closed, on a bright July day.

"What's wrong?" Alex said.

Ian cut the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. "Nothing, Alex."

No security guards, at a bank known for its high-security vault. An unmarked delivery truck, parked in the adjacent parking lot of a closed-down comic book store.

Alex's small shoulders tensed. "Ian—"

"Stay in the car," Ian said sharply.

He got out of the car, sprinted across the parking lot, and pushed through the bank doors, right behind Jack. In a split second, he read the lobby. And in that split second, his heart sank. Bloody perfect.

"Don't—" he said loudly.

A bank teller leapt to his feet and grabbed the robber's gun arm from behind. Someone screamed; Ian pulled Jack down and moved between her and any stray bullets.

_Today _will_ be fun._

With cruel ease, before Ian could even take another step, the robber twisted the bank teller's arm and flung him to the marble floor. The teller looked up, gasping and helpless, cradling his arm. He looked up into the barrel of a gun.

The other three gunmen didn't move. They kept their weapons trained on the row of pale-faced hostages sitting on the floor.

"That was your big move? Really?" The first robber lowered the gun so that it pointed directly at the bank teller's heart. "That was just _sloppy._"

"Please—" the young man gasped.

The robber pulled the trigger. There was a muted bang, and Jack clutched Ian's hand, and the teller collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

ARARAR

"_Welcome home," Jack called, reaching into a paper grocery bag for a dark-red pomegranate. "I wasn't sure you'd be coming back."_

"_Just had a quick meeting," Ian said, swiftly hiding his own grocery bag of fresh strawberries and cake mix in the cupboard. _

"_Good." Jack wiped watermelon seeds off the cutting board. "My birthday picnic is required attendance."_

"_It's supposed to rain."_

_Jack stared out the window at the clear blue sky. "Right."_

_Ian laughed. "That's what the weather channel said."_

_Jack sliced the pomegranate in half. Red seeds, pulp, juice spilled out._

"_Well, pack your umbrella. I'll pack mine."_

ARARAR

Jack couldn't breathe. She closed her eyes and opened them again, but nothing changed—Ian still stood in front of her, staring down the gun, his hands raised slightly. How could this be happening again? Shouldn't one chance encounter with a crazed gunman be sufficient to last a lifetime?

"Apparently not," she muttered, and Ian glanced back at her, eyebrows raised.

The bank lobby was wide and spacious, cold with air-conditioning. Counters lined the back wall, and an elevator and a marble staircase led to the two upper levels. There were four armed robbers in dark clothes, ten hostages sitting on the floor against the counter. And a body bleeding a dark puddle behind the gunman's casual steps.

"Welcome to our private party," the gunman said pleasantly, aiming his gun from Ian to Jack. "If you'd both join the others, please—and Mr. Guard, I believe I told you to lock the doors."

"He needs an ambulance," Jack said, staring at the bank teller on the floor.

"He needs a hearse," the gunman corrected.

"Jack," Ian said quietly, "do what he says. It'll be okay."

"Right." The gunman winked at Ian, as though the two of them were cohorts in some extravagant big-fish story or surprise birthday party. "It'll be okay, sweetheart. Just make yourself at home."

Jack couldn't decide if she wanted to laugh or cry. With wavy dark hair and sparkling green eyes, the lead robber was as handsome as a movie star. Part of her was almost convinced that this was, in fact, a Hollywood set, and the robber was an actor—his bright eyes the product of professional lighting, his gun loaded with blanks.

"Make yourself at home," the robber repeated patiently.

"Before or after you kill me?" Jack said, her breathing ragged.

The man frowned. "Just because I'm going to kill you don't mean we can't have a nice time."

He was being serious. Jack took a deep breath. She could obey timidly. She could surrender to the absurdly comic and deadly hand that life seemed to have dealt her.

Or she could play along.

"Does that mean I should take my shoes off?" she said, half-raising her hand like a student in class. "That's what I do, when I'm at home."

The robber blinked in surprise, and then smiled. "Do whatever makes you comfortable."

Jack leaned over to unbuckle her white sandals, trying to breathe normally. "At home, I would probably put on some Cake," she muttered.

"The band?" Ian said, "or the dessert?"

Jack glanced up at him. He was looking at her with approval. "The band," she said, deeply aware of the gunman's ambivalent gaze. "Comfort Eagle. Sheep Go To Heaven."

"Mr. Brightside," Ian added helpfully.

Even under gunpoint, Jack couldn't resist rolling her eyes. "Good try, Ian."

The handsome robber was beaming. "You're too much. Both of you. This party might be more fun than I thought."

One of the robber's accomplices, tall and thickset with a black teardrop tattoo beneath his eye, stepped closer to Jack and Ian. "You two don't have anybody knows you're in here, do you?" he said gruffly.

"Or anybody waiting in the parking lot?" chimed in another accomplice, thin and wiry with a long ponytail and a coal-gray Armani suit.

"No," Ian said.

Jack's eyes widened. Alex. She glanced toward the parking lot, where the Jaguar convertible was halfway visible through the slats in the blinds.

"We're sorry to walk in on you," Ian added steadily. "The bank looked open from the outside."

Hollywood aimed the gun at Ian and smiled again—even his teeth were perfect, white and even. "Since you're feeling so helpful, you wouldn't mind closing the blinds."

Ian obeyed, and it was only because Jack knew him so well that she saw the flicker of relief in his eyes. Ian also flipped over the sign at the entrance so that it read 'Closed.'

"Good thinking." Hollywood jabbed Ian with the barrel of the gun. "Almost too good. What game are you playing, friend?"

"No game," Ian said; Jack could hardly believe how calm he sounded. "I work at a bank; I've been trained how to handle robberies like this one."

"Hm." Hollywood blinked. "I wouldn't peg you as a bank teller."

"Neither would I," Jack murmured.

"We're told to cooperate," Ian continued steadily, "and not to resist. It creates the greatest odds of survival for both the hostages and the robbers."

Hollywood looked amused again and nudged the corpse on the floor with his foot. "Our friend here must've been playing hooky on training day." He jabbed Ian with the gun again. "Sit down with the others."

Ian nodded, and for a split second, Jack saw a flicker of something in his eyes—not fear, not frustration or panic, but pure calculation. He and Jack crossed the room and sat against the counter. When Jack caught his eye again, he offered a half-smile. _It'll be okay._

She wished she could believe it.

ARARAR

"_Turn left," Jack said._

_Ian slid on his sunglasses against the glaring sun and squinted through the windshield. "The river is straight ahead."_

"_We're just ten minutes away," Alex chimed in from the backseat._

"_Yeah," Jack said, flushing, "but my bank is to the left."_

_Ian glanced sideways at her as he turned the steering wheel. "You don't need to cash your parents' birthday check today, Jack. I'll pay for whatever you need."_

"_As usual," Jack muttered._

_Now Ian was staring at her. "Is that a problem?"_

"_Watch the road, Ian."_

"_I know how to drive, Jack. You know, you've never raised a financial objection before. We're a—" He'd been about to say 'family,' but caught himself. "We're in this together. You don't have to worry about money."_

_Jack smirked slightly. "We're in this together? In what, exactly? Life? The Jaguar? Another dumb argument?"_

_Ian flashed her a slight grin. "Does it really matter?"_

_Jack shrugged and looked down at her pink frosted nails. She trusted Ian. And she didn't resent the fact that he'd been paying her expenses for years. After all, she'd been taking care of Alex, earning her pay._

_But—_

"_What is it, Jack?"_

_He always knew what she was thinking, anyway._

"_Nothing." She squinted into the sunlight. "It's just up ahead, on the left." _

ARARAR

The handsome robber leaned casually against the counter, his eyes roaming the row of hostages. "Right, then. Our friend, mister—" He glanced across the room at Ian.

"Ian Howell."

Jack blinked. _Howell?_

"—Our friend Ian Howell has the right idea. You're all going to cooperate. You're going to follow my rules. For every rule that's broken, I shoot one hostage. For every person that tries something stupid, I shoot three. And since our dead bank teller friend already tried something stupid, I still owe you two more bodies."

Hollywood stepped up to Jack and aimed the gun between her eyes. Jack stared up at him, her heart thudding painfully. Oh God, please—

"You don't want to do that," Ian said.

Hollywood snapped the gun toward Ian. "Actually, I do. I have no qualms whatsoever about shooting her in the face."

"You don't want to kill her."

"Why not?"

_Good question, Ian, _Jack thought, her knuckles turning white from clutching her purse like a shield. _Why not? It'll panic the hostages? It'll put unnecessary blood on your hands? _

Ian's gaze was steady. "Jack is too much fun to kill."

The robber threw back his head and laughed. "Well, she is rather fun. And rather pretty. But she'd be just as pretty dead as she is alive, and maybe more so. More poetic." He winked at Jack, as though she ought to be looking pleased with the compliment. "Jack, isn't it? You don't seem afraid of me."

"My heart is beating like a hummingbird's," she confessed.

"A hummingbird?"

"A hummingbird on crack," she clarified.

Hollywood laughed. "Pretty _and_ fun. I'll let you slide this time. One freebie." His eyes roamed the roomful of hostages. "Did you hear that? How generous am I!"

Most of the hostages stared down at the floor and tried to make themselves invisible. A few, emboldened by Jack and Ian's cavalier approach, attempted weak smiles.

"Don't you smirk at me," the man said, his voice suddenly ice cold.

"No one is smirking at you," Ian said.

The handsome lunatic smiled vaguely. "Of course they're not. Now. Everybody's going to take a little field trip to the upstairs conference room. Marconi, Garcia—you'll wait outside the door, and if anyone so much as pokes their little toe outside the doorway, my friends will shoot it off."

The man in the Armani suit was shifting from foot to foot, fidgeting, flexing his gun hand. Another accomplice, vaguely Hispanic looking, sneered at the hostages.

"In the meantime," the first robber continued, "My friend Green and I will be taking the scenic tour."

The muscular man with the teardrop tattoo nodded very slightly.

"I'm afraid there won't be much to see," Ian said. "Banks all tend to look alike."

Hollywood smirked conspiratorially. "After ten years in Swansea, I think Mr. Green here will enjoy the scenery."

Swansea? Jack vaguely recognized it as a city in Wales. She glanced at Ian, whose blue eyes flickered with recognition.

"Now." Hollywood folded his arms. "I need one bank teller and Little Miss Assistant Manager to join us. The plan is to empty out these registers and move this little party to the vault."

The blonde assistant manager stood up slowly, her face ash-gray. Unsurprisingly, none of her employees volunteered to join her. The bank robber's smile faded.

"You're not even going to pretend to play along? Nobody?"

He aimed the gun into the face of sixty-year-old man with a gold wedding band on his ring finger and crows' feet around his eyes.

"You're going to force me to kill some feeble old chap because you're too lazy to open a few cash drawers?" He cocked the gun. "I don't mind it much, but I'm not sure this gentleman would appreciate—"

"I'll go with you," Jack said, standing up.

Ian looked sharply at her. "_Jack_," he hissed.

The robber laughed. "I like you, sweetheart. You're bloody hilarious."

She ignored Ian's warning glare. "Thanks."

"But you don't work here, so I'm not sure if you'd know how to do anything besides standing around and being bloody hilarious." The gunman pointed at one of the tellers, a skinny man with wire-rimmed glasses. "You. Join us, please."

The man rose slowly to his feet; Jack sat back down beside Ian. Her whole body was shaking. She could walk the thin line between relating to the psychopath and mocking him; she could smile when it was her cue to smile. But her fear grew more paralyzing with each passing second. If the robbery succeeded, these men would escape into the parking lot.

And if they escaped into the parking lot, they would find Alex.

ARARAR

It wasn't until Jack, Ian, and the rest of the hostages had been shut inside the small, windowless conference room that Ian spoke.

"Don't do that again, Jack."

He and Jack were sitting near the corner on the threadbare carpet, their backs against the plain gray wall. The other hostages were pacing, crying, praying. A few men were huddled around the conference table, trying to plan their way out of an impossible situation, like little boys on a battlefield.

Jack glanced tiredly at Ian. "Don't what?"

"Volunteer to go off and be his hostage."

"I was just—"

"I know," Ian said. "_Don't. _ I need you with me."

Jack blinked. Typical Ian. She'd been trying to prevent an innocent man being killed, and Ian was acting as though she'd flounced in front of a speeding bus.

"I'm sorry," she said, a little coolly. "I was clearly being stupid. Selfish, too."

Ian's forehead creased. "Don't get angry, Jack."

"I'm not _angry_." Her voice was slightly less than rock-solid. "I just—it's my birthday, and there are guys running around with guns, and they're going to kill us. Sorry if I seem a little tense."

A middle-aged brunette woman, leaning white-faced against the opposite wall, shook her head. "He said. He said if we cooperate, no one has to—to get hurt."

Jack snorted. "Are you kidding me?"

"Jack," Ian said sharply.

"We've seen their faces," Jack plunged on—she knew she shouldn't, but the woman was so ignorant. "They aren't even trying to disguise their names, their identities. Are you _sure _you don't want to rethink your hypothesis?"

"Everything will be fine," Ian said, in a dangerously low voice. "We just need to stay calm and cooperate."

"Cooperate with that _killer_?" Jack snorted. "Gee, really, Ian? That's your plan? Seems like we could achieve the same results if you'd just hop up on that table, and let me help you slip the noose around your neck—"

The other hostages, who had secretly been drawing strength from Ian's calm, were trying not to stare. Ian's eyes flashed. "Do you trust me even a little bit, Jack?"

She rolled her eyes. "You know I trust you."

"Then what the _hell_ are you doing?"

Jack blinked. _Good question. _

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

He met her eyes, and Jack knew at once that she and Ian were being crushed by the same image, the same fear. Jack was handling the fear by distracting herself, by lashing out and hiding behind a shield of sarcasm. Ian was handling it—somehow differently.

Jack took a deep breath. Exhaled slowly. "He'll be okay."

Ian didn't ask what she meant. "Of course. He'll be fine."

"He's too young to realize that anything's wrong."

"And I told him to stay in the car," Ian agreed.

"We've only been gone ten minutes."

"Fifteen, at most."

They were quiet for a few seconds. Then Ian stood up, and so did Jack.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He wasn't quite looking at her. "You were wonderful earlier, Jack. The man's an unusually playful lunatic."

"You deal with lunatics a lot?" Jack said shrewdly.

"But," Ian continued, very quietly, "he's a professional, and what you were telling that woman earlier—you were right. We don't have time to waste; we've got to make our move."

"What move?"

Ian lowered his voice. "Divide and conquer."

"Meaning?"

"They're only dangerous in numbers."

"Really?" Jack said, tapping her chin in mock-perplexity. "I thought they were dangerous because they can shoot us in the face."

A ghost of a smile crossed Ian's face. "I wouldn't have told you this a few years ago, Jack, but you are the most disturbingly well-adjusted woman I've ever met."

She shrugged. "It comes with the job."

ARARAR

"—_And Londoners can expect thunderstorms, ranging from mild to severe, as the day progresses—"_

ARARAR

In the bank parking lot, ten-year-old Alex Rider slowly opened the car door. Jack and Ian had disappeared into the bank twenty minutes ago. Five minutes after that, the blinds had flipped shut, blocking the windows. Since then, nothing inside the bank had moved.

Maybe there was a long line.

_But how long could the line be?_

Alex answered the question himself: not this long. Not with only a half dozen cars in the parking lot. Something was wrong.

_Stay in the car, Alex._

Alex hesitated for half a second—that was precisely how long it took to convince himself, with a slight, self-mocking smirk, that Ian had merely been making an optional suggestion, and not giving Alex an order.

He approached the bank, scanning for clues, and his eyes turned dark and serious. Something was wrong. Overheard, the sun had slipped behind a pall of dark, angry clouds, and the bank's entrance had been curtained off, with a 'closed' sign in the window, and from inside there was a violent crack of sound that might've been a thunderclap, or might've been a gunshot.

_To Be Continued! :D_

**Hello, all! :) **

**Thank you so much to everyone who has PMed me inquiring if I am alive...haha. Know that I'll always keep writing...I won't give up on these stories until they are completed! But I'm a real-live adult now (haha) with monthly rent, two part-time jobs, and full-time university classes, so try to understand! I WILL keep writing, I promise! But I won't be able to promise regular updates. :( **

**Review! Pretty please with a cherry on top! :)**


	11. Best Laid Plans

**EDIT: AHH! Almost forgot--I hope no one has read this yet! Chapter rated T for LANGUAGE and VIOLENCE. **

**I think this is my highest word-count ever!!!! :D I'm sorry if it seems too long for a single chapter--but there's plenty of action, so hopefully that'll make up for it. Also, I really wanted to get this posted, so I haven't edited/proofread as much as I wanted to. If you spot a typo or something that doesn't make sense, please forgive me and just let me know in a review :) **

**Just a reminder--this chapter is the continuation of the last chapter, rather than the usual one-shot. Thanks for your patience! Enjoy!**

Jack took a deep breath. Closed her eyes. Envisioned herself plunging a stainless steel nail file into the robber's eye.

She opened her eyes and found Ian staring at her.

"What?" Jack said defensively.

At least three of the hostages winced at her tone. Jack had spoken in her normal voice, but in the grim, deadened atmosphere of the conference room, she had sounded as shrill as an alarm. A petite woman with short, dark hair was kneeling in the corner, her head bowed and her hands clasped; an old man was massaging his chest and breathing a little too heavily; a small group of men had gathered at the end of the conference table, listening to the whispers of a forty-something ringleader with a sturdy build and dog tags hung round his neck. A chill raced down Jack's spine. The man looked like a captain who had set a steadfast course to the edge of the earth. _Here there be monsters._

Ian's blue eyes narrowed. "Whatever you're planning, Jack, don't do it."

"I'm not planning anything."

Ian raised an eyebrow.

"Alright, fine," Jack huffed—why did she ever even bother lying to Ian? "I'm going to pretend to be having a female emergency, and when the homicidal maniac gives me my purse, I'm going to grab my nail-file and stick it in his eye. Or his heart." She paused. "Or maybe his package."

Ian's lip twitched. "You're not that ruthless."

"If it's a matter of life and death, I am," Jack said, her voice icy. "Thanks to me, a criminal is walking around with an iron shaped scar on his chest—or had you forgotten?"

Ian shook his head. "Jack—"

"I know. You have a plan." Jack folded her arms. "But guess what? I don't like your plan. It's underhanded and dangerous and—"

"—effective," Ian supplied, deadpan.

"—and _stupid_," Jack snapped. "Ian, for God's sake—"

"It's not open to debate." Ian said seriously. "And when the fight starts, don't try to help."

Jack rolled her eyes. "Glad to know you trust me."

Ian met her eyes, pleading, and as much as Jack wanted to hold onto her indignant anger, she could feel it melting away. As long as she held Ian's steady gaze, it was easy to pretend that she and Ian were home, eying each other appraisingly after some dumb argument, or glancing quickly at each other and then looking away to prevent themselves from bursting out into laughter—or recognizing some awkward connection that they would never speak of again—

Then Ian stood up. He crossed the room to join the group of hostages gathered at the meeting table, and Jack sighed and sank to the floor with her back against the wall, wondering how much force it would take to drive five inches of blunt steel through a man's ribcage.

ARARAR

Alex Rider was shocked that he hadn't been caught yet.

Crouching in the shadows beneath a wooden desk, breathing as quietly as possible, he watched the robbers drag the thin blonde woman past the cubicle. Alex's heart was racing. Outside, a drizzle of rain had started.

He had sneaked into the bank by prying open a window that the robbers had left open. No grown man would've been able to squeeze through, but the space had been just wide enough for a ten-year-old boy. He had landed sideways on the marble floor, had looked up, catching his breath—and had found himself eye-to-eye with a very pale, very dead bank teller.

Alex shouted in horror. He couldn't help himself.

Thankfully, his voice echoed to an empty lobby. Shuddering, trying to ignore the man's blank, glassy eyes and the dark pool of blood, Alex followed a trail of broken cell phones and purses to the marble staircase. From somewhere above, he could hear a man's voice, charged with fury: "What do you _mean _you don't know the code? You're the bloody assistant manager!"

Taking a deep breath, staying close to the wall, Alex tiptoed up the marble staircase. At the top, a long gray corridor split into two directions.

Alex hesitated. To the right, he could hear the harsh voice that had been audible from the lobby. But from the left, there were quieter, subtler voices. He listened closely.

"Can't we just shoot them?" a man said, almost whining.

Someone else muttered something.

"Well, when the time comes, I want to be the one to ice the bitch," the first man said, his voice ugly with twisted desire.

Trying not to think about what the criminals were saying, Alex approached the end of the hall. He remembered, with startling clarity, one of Ian's lessons from intense games of hide-n-seek and capture the flag.

"_Remove yourself from your opponent's line of sight, Alex. A tall man won't be watching the floor."_

Alex crouched low, held his breath, and peeked around the corner.

The first things he noticed were the guns. They reminded Alex of the weapons—semi-automatic handguns, Ian had called them—that the intruders had discharged in the Riders' laundry room more than two years ago. With difficulty, Alex tore his eyes away from the cold steel and studied the robbers. The first wore a fancy-looking suit, its fabric jet-black and pressed and little too neat. The other, dark-haired and Hispanic looking, was leaning against the wall, examining his gun. He looked utterly bored.

"What're you going to do with you share?" the man in the suit asked—he seemed more talkative than his partner, or more nervous.

"Dunno," the Hispanic man grunted. "Haven't really thought about it."

"Haven't thought about it?" The suit sounded incredulous. "For shame, man! You'll be able to buy anything! A wife, a Caribbean island—" The corner of his lip tugged upward. "—a personality, maybe—"

"That's only if the boss finds out the combination to the main vault," the second man said, with a definite flicker of annoyance this time. "From the sounds of things, Little Miss Assistant Manager isn't being too cooperative."

As if on cue, Alex heard a woman's shriek from the opposite end of the hall, and a man's furious shout: "Well, then, think a little harder!"

The two robbers exchanged commiserating glances. Then Alex saw the man in the suit untuck a rusted chain from beneath his collar.

"We'll find the damn combination." He kissed the silver medallion hung round his neck, and then tucked the necklace back under his neatly pressed collar. "By St. Anthony, we will."

The Hispanic man rolled his eyes, and they lapsed into a tense silence. The suited man studied his polished Italian shoes, and the dark-haired man tested the trigger of his gun, as though he'd very much like to shoot his partner in the foot.

Alex had heard enough. Slowly, he backed away from the corner and retreated in the direction he'd come from. Another scream split the air—Alex prayed, silently, that the robbers were merely threatening the woman, rather than actually hurting her.

A few meters down, the corridor opened into an office space, a maze of cubicles. Alex could hear the angry voice, much louder and sharper than before. And then another, smoother voice.

_How many bad guys are there? _he thought, momentarily panicked. _Three? Four?_

Something inside of him, some natural instinct of self-preservation, told Alex to hang back and wait. But Jack and Ian might have been trapped somewhere. Alex's cautious instinct was drowned in a surge of fear and determination and an intense desire to _do _something.

His eyes dark and serious, he approached the entryway to the office. He could see endless rows of dimly lit cubicles, aisle after aisle, gray box after gray box. He felt as though he was staring into a reflection of a reflection, receding into itself.

He walked slowly down the first aisle. Then his breath caught in his throat. Up ahead, in the same aisle, a shadow was moving closer.

With reflexes born of years of karate lessons, Alex flung himself sideways into the nearest cubicle, just in time. As he tucked himself beneath the desk, he could hear the approach of heavy footsteps and a woman's ragged breathing.

"What the hell are you playing at?" the same man growled. "Just give us the bloody code."

The woman sucked in a breath. "I—I told you already, I can't. I know—I know the combinations to most of the vaults, and there are keys to the safety deposit boxes, but the main vault—" A sob escaped her. "No one except the manager knows it, for—security reasons—and it's on a timed release."

Alex slowly crawled out from beneath the desk. He perhaps should have stayed hidden, but the robbers were facing the opposite direction, tormenting the poor woman, and maybe there was something on the desk that could help the situation. A stack of papers—a stapler—

Then his heart jolted.

A phone.

If he could contact the police, it would be worth getting caught. Without hesitation, he picked it up and raised the phone to his ear. There was a dial tone.

A dangerously loud dial tone.

Alex reached to dial the police, but before he'd pressed the second number, a pair of rough hands grabbed him from behind and jerked him to his feet. Alex shouted and tried to twist free; fingers intertwined in his blonde hair and forced his head backward. He could see the ceiling tiles, and then he could see a menacing face, upside down, crack into a smirk. Alex stomped on the man's foot, as hard as he could, but the man didn't even react.

"Let me go," Alex said, his voice small, his eyes welling with tears. "What did I do wrong?"

It was a desperate appeal to pity. Alex knew that adults—even bloodthirsty criminals, he hoped—were instinctively hesitant to harm schoolchildren. If this man's grip loosened for a split second, Alex knew how to break free. Ian had taught him.

But Alex's attacker was immune to human pity. If anything, his viselike grip tightened and, in spite of himself, Alex gasped in pain.

From farther back, a charismatic voice called, "Don't hurt him, Green."

Alex was forced around, and he found himself staring up into the stone-cold eyes of a broad-shouldered, heavily muscled robber with a teardrop tattoo beneath his eye. Standing farther back, a strikingly handsome man was smiling.

"What have we here?" he said, raising his eyebrows at Alex's struggles. "Slipped away from daycare, have you?"

Alex didn't answer; he was just noticing the blonde woman, who had collapsed to the floor behind the robbers, whimpering and cradling her arm.

"What's your name?" the handsome man asked, absently raking a hand through his dark hair so that it looked properly disordered.

"Run," Alex said, very softly.

"I'm sorry?" the man said pleasantly.

Alex stared at the woman, his eyes wide and urgent. "RUN!"

The woman's own eyes widened in realization. One of her captors had casually pocketed his gun. The other had his hands full with Alex.

She rolled to her feet, kicked off her black high-heeled shoes, and bolted.

Green, the man with the teardrop tattoo, cursed loudly; he may have been immensely strong, but his brain was apparently his least developed muscle. The woman had already disappeared down the corridor. To Alex's surprise, Hollywood only laughed.

"Not too shabby, my little friend," he complimented Alex, his hazel eyes sparkling. "You're very much like me, when I was your age."

"I doubt it," Alex said coolly, trying to sound as much like Ian as possible. "I'd rather play football than torture small animals, for one thing."

Hollywood's smile faded. "That's not very nice, you know. I'm not a psychopath."

Alex laughed; he couldn't help himself. "Of course you're not," he agreed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You only _act_ crazy so you can ride on the special bus."

Snarling in frustration at the woman's escape and his boss's unruffled attitude, Green tightened his right-handed grip on Alex and reached with the other hand for his gun. Hollywood blinked, tilting his head sideways.

A split second later, Green howled in pain. "Sonuvabitch!"

Alex had grabbed a stapler from the desktop, wrenched it open, and slammed it three times against Green's face. He had missed his intended target, the man's eye, but Green was not exceptionally happy about the staples embedded in his cheek and forehead.

"You little fucker," he growled—and before Alex could defend himself, before Hollywood could say a word, Green had literally picked Alex up and thrown him onto the desk. Alex landed hard, the wind knocked out of him. Hazily, his back pressing into something sharp, a stack of CDs raining down on him, Alex hoped that the woman was going to get help.

Because Alex was pretty sure he was going to need it.

ARARAR

"—We'll just have to burst out the door into the corridor—hopefully not too many of us will get shot, but that's a risk we'll have to take. We have to get out into that corridor somehow. Then Evan and I will charge the guy in the Italian suit. Mike and Phil, you go for the Hispanic-looking guy. If you both strike at once, he won't know which of you to shoot first. You'll be able to take the gun. Once we have the guns, we'll be the ones giving the orders. And if they don't obey, we shoot." The ringleader folded his arm and scanned his group of makeshift army recruits. "Any questions?"

Ian, who had just joined the group of men gathered around the table, raised his hand. "I have one."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Is that so, nancy boy?"

The man's name was Mark Burgess. He was American, an ex-marine, in London visiting his only daughter. She'd flown across the pond to study abroad for one semester, and she'd ended up falling in love with some rich British schoolboy who had spent the better part of the morning sipping tea and pinching the inside of Mark's daughter's thigh. Mark had offered to run errands for the young couple—anything to escape that claustrophobic house—and had ended up caught in a bank robbery. Understandably, he wasn't in the most friendly of moods.

"I'm sorry," Ian said, raising an eyebrow. "I thought you asked for questions."

"We have a plan," Mark Burgess said brusquely. "You're not involved."

"That's fine," Ian said easily. "Except—just for posterity's sake, I'm obliged to tell you that your plan is going to fail. If you run out that door with the intention of charging the robbers, you'll get shot before you can take two steps."

Mark could literally feel his blood pressure rising. "You're a bank teller, aren't you? You mentioned it earlier."

"And you remembered." Ian sounded surprised. "Well done."

"Excuse me?"

Ian shrugged. "In my experience, marines have trouble converting sensory data into long term memory. It's one of the reasons they rarely finish school."

The ex-marine stepped forward, swelling in anger. Ian didn't flinch, but the rest of the hostages were staring—even the petite, dark-haired woman had paused in her prayer, and a pretty red-haired woman was watching apprehensively from the corner.

"You're a _bank taller_," Mark snarled, inches from Ian's face. "Your so-called career means _nothing_. You sit behind a desk clicking buttons and getting coronary disease every damn day. So until you decide to risk your lifefor your country, don't talk to a goddamn marine about what's what."

Ian wiped a fleck of spit from his cheek. "An _ex_-marine," he corrected. "You can't possibly be on active duty—what are you, fifty-five? Sixty?"

The forty-five year old man clenched his hands into fists. "Semper fi, you dumb fuck. Once a marine, always a marine."

"I've heard that," Ian agreed, unbearably cocky. "I've also heard that marines change color."

Mark blinked. "What?"

"They start out green, and turn yellow."

Before Ian even finished speaking, Mark punched him in the face.

The conference room stared for a few shocked seconds. They stared as Ian hit back, stared as Mark swung again. Then the spell broke, and several hostages jumped to their feet at once.

"Break it up!"

"Cool it, man!"

"We don't need this right now!"

But Mark ignored them. He twisted Ian's arms behind him and shoved him up against the wall.

"Don't," he hissed, "call me coward."

"Marines are like bananas," Ian grunted, breaking the man's hold. "They turn yellow and die in bunches."

Furious, Mark tried to slam Ian against the wall again, but the fair-haired man suddenly seemed inexplicably stronger. He steered the fight away from the wall, toward the door. Mark couldn't help but wonder—if Ian was able to control the fight so effectively, why couldn't he seem to fight back?

"Semper fi, old man," Ian gasped.

With a roar of anger, John charged. He barreled into Ian and tackled him backward. The pair would have collided with the door—_would_ have, but at the last moment Jack turned the doorknob and pushed the door open just an inch, and Mark and Ian slammed against the door and knocked it open. They fell to the threadbare carpet in the corridor, and Ian tried to guard his face and neck as the marine pummeled every inch of Ian that he could reach.

The two robbers who had been guarding the conference room door stared in bemusement.

"What the hell?" the Hispanic robber muttered.

A few of the hostages had spilled into the corridor, but they froze when they saw the robbers' guns. Garcia, the Hispanic robber, looked perplexed; Marconi, the man in the Armani suit, only laughed.

"Turning on each other already?" He smirked. "We haven't even shot any of you yet."

"Break it up," Garcia ordered. "We don't want any of you dead—at least, not right away."

Mark Burgess tried for one more punch, but Garcia grabbed him from behind and twisted his arm behind him.

"I _said _break it up."

Mark was forced to his feet, and immediately flinched at the cold shock of a gun against the back of his neck.

"You think you're trouble, don't you?" Marconi said, his lip curling.

The corridor was dead silent, except for Mark's heavy breathing. The ex-marine stood tall, the hostages frozen and silent behind him, all facing down the robbers. Jack tried to breathe. Behind the robbers' backs, Ian lay crumpled on the floor. It hurt Jack to see him like this—his face bleeding and bruised, his shirt torn, his body motionless. He almost resembled the Ian she'd seen returning from "business trips" so often—but this time, she had seen the injuries being inflicted.

Jack wanted to cry. She had known this plan was stupid.

Then she gasped. As suddenly as a light switch being flicked, Ian had opened his eyes. He rose slowly to his feet, pressing a finger to his lips in an appeal for silence; Jack's heart skipped a beat.

_What the hell,_ she thought wildly. What _the _hell.

Ian pressed his finger to his lips again, shaking his head, and Jack quickly averted her gaze. Thankfully, the rest of the hostages seemed to understand Ian's signal for quiet; they didn't speak, didn't even breathe.

"So should I shoot you dead right now?" Marconi wondered, his gun still aimed at the ex-marine's chest. "Or can I trust you to get back inside that conference room and not cause any more trouble?"

While Marconi was talking, Ian made his move. He clamped a hand over Garcia's mouth, tore the gun from the robber's unsuspecting grip, and aimed directly at the Hispanic man's heart. The blood drained from Garcia's face. He knew, from the glint in the man's blue eyes, that Ian would not hesitate to pull the trigger.

With his back to the action, Marconi had no idea that anything had happened. Mark Burgess's lip twitched. Ian waited, patient and motionless, until Marconi spoke again.

"I'm going to ask you one more—"

Lightning-fast, Ian dropped Garcia with a sharp blow to the temple—and as Marconi turned slowly, too slowly, to see what had happened, Ian kicked the gun out of Garcia's hand. It skittered across the floor.

"Don't move," Ian ordered flatly.

Jack shivered. Ian's gun hand was steady and practiced, as though he'd done this a thousand times. She wanted to trust him, wanted to believe in what he was doing, but she suddenly had no lingering doubts about whether the pistol he kept in the house was real or plastic.

"What the hell?" Marconi spluttered. "How—"

With a cry, Garcia lunged for the fallen gun, but Ian kicked it to Mark Burgess. The ex-marine snatched it up and leveled the barrel at Garcia's chest.

"Hands on your head," Mark said, "you stupid, promiscuous, rich-ass little ponce."

Ian blinked, and Jack suppressed laughter. The hostages had fallen into an almost reverent hush, and the petite dark-haired woman was murmuring "thank God" over and over again, tears streaming down her face.

"Is it safe to say that I've earned your trust?" Ian said quietly, speaking only to Jack.

Jack shrugged. She was trying to contain her relief, but it was written across her face. "Aside from the fact that you picked a fight with some innocent guy and could've gotten yourself killed—yeah, I guess so."

"That was well-played," Mark Burgess admitted, keeping the gun trained on Garcia. "Well-acted. Sorry about—y'know—"

"It wasn't the first beating I've deserved," Ian said dryly,

Jack arched her eyebrows. "Really."

Ian looked at her and sighed. He could almost see the questions forming on her lips. "We'll talk when we get home," he said, hoping that would be the end of it.

"How'd you know—"

"When we get home," he repeated sharply. "Okay, Jack?"

Jack's forehead creased, but Ian had already moved on to the next order of business.

"If anyone is wearing a belt," he said, "we'll need to use it to tie these men up. Then we'll get you all—" He stopped short at Jack's expression. "I mean, then we'll all get out of here."

He and the ex-marine led the robbers into the conference room. The hostages who had been hiding in the room stood slowly, comprehension dawning, as the robbers trudged inside, closely followed by Ian and Mark and the rest of the hostages.

"What happened?" someone whispered, looking from Ian to Jack to Mark.

Another woman, who had witnessed the action in the corridor, looked at Ian with rapt, shining eyes. "He was amazing," she said, blushing. "Like a real—a real superhero, or something."

Ian's lip twitched, not at the woman's hero-worship, but at the annoyance that flitted across Jack's face. "Belts," he reminded them. "Let's get them tied up and get out of here."

"We should call the police," one man suggested, unhooking his brown leather belt.

"We should call a news crew," another man chimed in, with self-conscious laughter. "This is grade A movie stuff, right here."

"And no one will forget your valuable contribution as frightened hostage number four," Jack muttered under her breath.

Ian suppressed a grin. He caught the belt that one of the men tossed him, and, still holding the gun with one hand, he cinched the belt around Marconi's wrists.

Suddenly, from somewhere down the corridor, Jack heard a distant crash and a shout that sounded far too familiar.

"Ian," Jack whispered, with a swell of dread.

"Everyone needs to get out of here," Ian said calmly, cinching another belt around Marconi's ankles. "The other two robbers are coming."

The hostages stared blankly at him.

"_Go_," Ian repeated sharply. "Turn right, hide inside the next conference room across the hall—and as soon as the robbers burst into this room, expecting to see you all here, you'll be able to move past them and run downstairs." He locked eyes with Jack. "When you get outside, find a pay phone and call the police."

She shook her head. "I'm not leaving."

The rest of the hostages had no such qualms; they skirted past Marconi and Garcia, glanced back at Ian with a kind of ashamed gratitude, and disappeared into the corridor. Only Ian, Jack, the ex-marine, and two hostages, the dark-haired woman and the older man, remained.

"I told you to go," Ian said sharply, speaking to all of the hostages, but mostly to Jack.

The dark-haired woman looked up at Ian, her eyes glimmering with worry. "I—I think he's having a heart attack. He can't move."

"A heart attack?"

"Yes."

"Bloody perfect," Ian muttered.

Jack frowned at him, and almost immediately, his eyes registered a flicker of guilt. He finished securing a third belt around Marconi's arms, and then strode to the older man's side.

"What's your name?" Ian asked.

"Please," the man panted.

He was massaging his chest with one hand and clutching his wedding ring with the other. His breathing was loud and shallow, his eyes staring wildly at something beyond Ian's head that neither Ian nor Jack could see.

"Your name," Ian said firmly.

"Daniel—Brown," he managed.

Jack blinked. "Like Dan Brown, the author?"

"No relation," the man gasped. "Oh God—why can't I breathe?"

The dark-haired woman gently pried open Daniel's hand and held it. "You'll be okay, Daniel," she said soothingly.

Daniel shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. "I'm—dying. It's—happened before, but never like this—"

Jack blinked. "You've died before?"

"You've had a heart attack before?" the dark-haired woman hedged, glancing at Ian.

From the corridor, there was another heart stopping crash. Daniel moaned and closed his eyes again, his chest heaving—the ex-marine, who had kept his gun trained on Garcia, glanced toward the small group, wondering if he ought to try and help somehow.

But Mark's split second of distraction cost him deeply. In desperation, Garcia lunged forward. Before Jack could shout a warning, before Ian could even take a step, Garcia tore the gun from Mark's hands. Stepped back.

And squeezed the trigger.

ARARAR

_Jack watched the raindrops exploding on the pavement. The green and blue and purple colors of hers and Alex's chalk drawings were being washed away._

_She was absentmindedly chipping away at a half-disintegrated piece of sidewalk chalk when Ian's sleek silver car pulled into the driveway. The door swung open and he stepped out, without an umbrella, without even a coat—he was using his black jacket to cover a white cardboard box. His fair hair looked dramatically darker than usual, and his blue eyes cooler._

"_Nice day to come home from Tibet," Jack remarked, smirking, as Ian splashed through a puddle on his way to the porch steps. There was the faint shadow of a bruise on his jaw. She wouldn't ask; he wouldn't tell._

_At the foot of the porch, Ian frowned up at her. "Is there some reason I had to find out from Alex that today is your birthday? What if I wanted to take you out for lunch, or bake you a cake, or something else exciting?"_

"_You wouldn't have had the time—or the ability— to do any of that," Jack said, rolling her eyes. _

"_I might've," Ian said dryly. He knew, of course, that she was probably right._

_Jack shrugged. "I'm twenty-four, big deal. It's hardly a significant age. I didn't even expect you to get home for another week."_

_Ian ascended the porch steps and held open the front door, waiting for her to go inside. "And I suppose that has nothing to do with why you're sulking in the rain."_

"_I'm not sulking," Jack said, hugging her knees and staring down into the pastel-chalk rivers. She made no move to stand up._

_A ghost of a smile crossed Ian's face. He let the door fall closed, sat beside Jack on the top step, and pushed the white cardboard box aside. For a long moment, he and Jack sat in silence._

"_So, what?" she said finally, glaring at him. "You're just going to sit out here and sulk with me?"_

"_Only if that's okay with you, Jack."_

_She smiled, despite herself. "What do you have to sulk about?""_

_A brief silence, punctuated only by the cadence of the rain._

"_It's been a long week," Ian said finally. He cracked open the cardboard box, revealing a soggy chocolate-frosted cake with a few candles stuck in the middle. He offered her a plastic fork. "Generic supermarket cake?" _

_Jack laughed. "No thanks. I prefer something with strawberries. Or, at the very least, something edible."_

_They sat in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, Ian watching the raindrops and Jack tracing murky shapes with the remnants of blue chalk. And Jack had the sense that, somehow, her next birthday would turn out a little better._

ARARAR

"Oh God," Jack breathed, her hand covering her mouth.

Garcia had shot Mark point-blank in the shoulder. The ex-marine collapsed to the floor, clutching the wound, gritting his teeth and squinting up into the barrel of the gun.

"Don't shoot," Mark said, breathless. "Don't—my daughter—don't shoot—"

Garcia sneered. "Who the hell's gonna stop me, amigo?"

"I might," Ian said.

Garcia's eyes flicked sideways, and he swore under his breath. Ian was holding him at gunpoint. Jack's heart was pounding—she could hear voices reaching a crescendo in the corridor.

"Ian," Jack said, her voice strained.

"Help Daniel calm down," Ian said, without even glancing away from Garcia. "Find out his symptoms."

The dark-haired woman nodded and leaned over the sixty-five year old man, listening to his heartbeat, her short dark hair sheathing her face. "How do you feel?" she whispered.

"Chest—hurts," Daniel wheezed. "Not enough—air—"

"Put down the gun," Ian ordered, refusing to be distracted.

Garcia smirked. "Here's the problem with that. I don't think you got it in you to shoot somebody."

Ian almost laughed. If Jack hadn't been there, he could've provided a dozen counterexamples. "You're wrong," he said instead. "Put down the gun and live."

"Any nausea?" the dark-haired woman was whispering.

"No."

"Pain in your left arm?"

"I—I don't think so—"

"Ian," Jack repeated, more urgently. "Listen."

Ian exhaled in exasperation. "In case you hadn't noticed, Jack, I'm a _little _busy."

"That sounded like Alex," she whispered.

Ian didn't turn pale. His expression didn't change. But Jack could see the dread and calculation in his eyes. Alex's life was at stake. The game had suddenly changed.

"If you don't put the gun down on the count of five," Ian said, his words fast and quiet, "I will shoot you in the head. One."

"You're bluffing," Garcia spat.

"Two."

"You couldn't do it," Marconi muttered from across the room, where he'd been straining against the leather straps.

"Three," Ian said impatiently.

From just outside the door, the handsome robber was laughing, smooth and charismatic, like the silvery pealing of bells. Jack heart drummed violently. She could see, from the look in Ian's eyes, that he was going to pull the trigger.

"Four," Ian said.

And then three things happened in rapid succession. Garcia dropped the gun, and Mark snatched it up—Jack heard, with unmistakable clarity, Alex's voice—

And the conference room door banged open.

ARARAR

"—_And the city has issued a severe thunderstorm warning, effective immediately. Londoners are advised to move indoors and stay tuned as we wait out the storm—"_

ARARAR

"Well, isn't this fun," Hollywood said, striding into the room, smiling brazenly into the barrel of Ian's gun. "A little VIP club—you should've invited us."

He was holding the blonde assistant manager in front of him. Her whole body trembled; from somewhere outside, thunder rattled the earth, and the woman's slim legs nearly collapsed beneath her.

"An innocent woman as a shield?" Ian remarked, as casually as though he were commenting on the weather. "A little trite for you, isn't it?"

Hollywood flashed Ian his blinding white smile. "Don't worry, my friend—she's merely a trifle. An unhelpful one, at that."

He shoved the blonde assistant manager into the room; she stumbled against Jack, who caught her gently. "It's okay," Jack whispered, glancing at Ian. "You're safe now."

"All my party guests have run off, have they?" Hollywood said, frowning at Ian as though the missing hostages were his fault—which, in fact, they were. "What's the old geezer still doing here, then?"

"He's having a heart attack," the dark-haired woman said softly.

The man was still gasping, flat on his back, like a fish that had flopped onto the riverbed. He clutched the dark-haired woman's hand so tightly that his knuckles were turning white.

"Hmm." Hollywood fingered his gun thoughtful. "Shall I just shoot him, then? Like a sick dog?"

Ian tightened his grip on the gun. "If you think—"

"Don't!"

Jack winced; her outburst had come out louder than she'd expected. Hollywood and Ian both looked at her, startled.

"Pray, why not?" Hollywood inquired, genuinely curious.

"It's—it's just a panic attack," Jack said, more softly. "The symptoms mimic those of a heart attack, but he'll be fine in ten minutes. Fifteen, tops."

Ian shot a quick, questioning glance at Jack; she shrugged miserably. More than five years ago, as an undergraduate student, she vaguely remembered learning about panic disorder in her abnormal psychology course. But she had no idea if this man's condition was as fleeting as a panic attack, or if he truly needed hospitalization. All she knew was that she wouldn't let him get shot.

Hollywood looked disappointed. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Jack lied. "I think you should let him live—he's still a viable hostage."

"Alrighty, then." He grinned cheekily at her. "You're exceptionally bright, aren't you? And pretty, too."

Ian's face remained cold. He stepped forward so that Daniel, Jack, and the two other women were behind him. Across the room, despite his bullet wound, the ex-marine was also aiming his gun at Hollywood.

"We're done here," Ian said. It wasn't a question.

Hollywood smiled at Ian, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Don't be so sure, my friend—there's still one guest yet to arrive."

As if on cue, the fourth robber barreled through the doorway. It had taken him longer to come inside, because he was hauling with him a blonde, ten-year-old boy.

There was a gun at the boy's back.

ARARAR

"_You know," Alex said, as Jack squeezed rainwater out of her long red hair and tossed the soggy cake in the bin, "there are these things called umbrellas."_

_Jack laughed. "You've got a smart mouth, you know that?"_

"_Next year, we should do something fun," Alex said, his dark eyes more serious. "Promise you won't just sit out in the rain."_

_Jack forced a smile. She thought of her parents, a thousand miles away, and her old friends back home who probably didn't remember her name, and the business trips that would always call Ian away as soon as Jack started to feel like she was exactly where she was meant to be. _

"_I'll try, Alex. I'll try, but sometimes it seems like we're just destined to get caught in the storm."_

ARARAR

Simultaneously, Jack and Ian stopped breathing.

"He almost slipped away," Green grunted.

Alex squirmed in the man's grip and threw him a look that could've frozen a campfire in hell. There was a bruise on Alex's cheek and a small cut on his forehead; his hair was tousled and his blue long-sleeved T-shirt hanging off him. He met his uncle's eyes, looking just as angry and ashamed as he was scared, and Jack felt a surge of fury—not at the robbers, but at Ian. It was absurd that Alex should be blaming himself.

"It'll be okay, Alex," she said, stepping forward. Her voice sounded weak and surreal to her own ears. "It'll be fine. We love you."

Green's eyes narrowed. "'We?'" he echoed.

Alex winced, and suddenly, with a rush of belated insight, Jack understood. Ian hadn't wanted the robbers to know the extent of his vulnerability. He hadn't wanted them to know that, rather than a random ten-year-old boy that could be used as leverage, Alex was the person who Ian loved more than anyone else in the world.

"Guns, please," Hollywood said pleasantly.

Ian stepped forward, never blinking, never breaking eye contact with Hollywood.

"I'll slide the gun to you," he said, "when you let him go."

Hollywood smiled pityingly. "Give me both guns, _now_," he said. "I thought we were friends. Don't make me ask you again."

Ian could hear the truth in the psychopath's voice. Slowly and carefully, he knelt down and slid the gun across the floor. It skittered to a stop a few inches from Hollywood's feet.

"Thanks very much, Ian," Hollywood said, shifting his gaze to Mark Burgess. "And you?"

Ian and Jack looked at the ex-marine, expectant. But the man didn't loosen his grip.

A muscle jumped in Ian's jaw. "Burgess," he said sharply.

The ex-marine shook his head stubbornly. "No effing way. We can't lose our only advantage."

"This isn't an advantage," Jack said, her voice rising. "This is a stalemate. People will end up dead. A _ten-year-old boy_ will end up dead."

Alex's face was white. "I'm sorry, Jack."

"Alex," she said, her heart breaking, "don't apologize, okay?"

"Put down the bloody gun," Daniel Brown whispered, still massaging his chest, "for the love of God."

"If I drop this weapon," Mark said, his face flushing with frustration, "we all _die_. Don't you people understand that?"

"Actually, only three of us will die," Ian corrected quietly. "Have you forgotten the rules? If anyone tries to escape, three hostages get shot." He looked at Hollywood. "That's what you said, isn't it?"

Hollywood looked pleased that Ian had remembered. "That's exactly right," he affirmed, thoughtfully scratching his neck with the barrel of his gun. "But if it's any consolation, we won't kill you right away. You'll have time to pray for God to forgive your dirty little sins, and maybe even to wank off one more time."

"As far as I'm concerned, there is no God," Mark said brusquely, "so that's not much consolation."

"But you'd still get to wank off," Hollywood reminded him, winking.

Alex flinched as the gun dug deeper into the small of his back. Jack glanced helplessly at Ian. She could see the man's thoughts moving, very fast; he glanced from Jack to Mark to the dark-haired woman.

"I volunteer to be one of the three," Ian said, "in place of the marine."

"NO!" Alex shouted, struggling again. "Ian, don't—"

"My apologies, Ian," Hollywood said pleasantly, "but my party doesn't quite work that way. You can volunteer to die, if that's what you really want, but I still get to pick two more. And I can assure you that Mr. Marine will be one of them."

Mark tightened his grip on the gun. "I'd like to see you try, asshole."

"Put down the gun, Mark," Ian said, his voice tight.

"Not a chance in hell. I'd rather die fighting than give myself up."

"Don't think of it as giving up; think of it as a strategic retreat." Ian lowered his voice. "I can get us out of this, Mark, no more casualties, but you have to trust me."

There was a long silence, quivering with tension. Jack stared at Mark, her green eyes burning. She prayed that he would listen to reason, prayed that he would understand the recklessness of his position.

Then Mark shook his head and tightened his grip on the gun. "Sorry, friend. If I drop this gun, I'm the one who dies. And I have a daughter. A wife. I won't leave them."

Jack couldn't believe this. How could he talk about family, when Alex was standing silently, bravely, at gunpoint, and when Ian had just offered his life?

"Take me," she snapped, stepping forward. "I'll be one of the three."

"_Jack_," Ian and Alex said together, glaring at her.

"That should be enough," she told Hollywood. "Two lives for the price of one."

Hollywood looked delighted at the way things were playing out. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice playful. "There's still one more life to be paid. I won't spare the sodding marine this easily."

There was a long silence. Mark's gun hand trembled; his left sleeve was painted red with blood, and his face was twisted with anguish and guilt and pale indecision. Jack didn't know what to do. She didn't know what more she could say—

"I'll be the third," the dark-haired woman spoke up.

Jack stared at her, shocked. "What?"

Tears streaked the dark-haired woman's face, but her voice was strong and clear. She couldn't have been older than twenty-five.

Hollywood blinked. "Really?"

"Unless I've miscounted," the woman said, fighting to sound calm.

Hollywood stared at her for a long moment. All the while, Jack waited for Ian to object. This was an innocent young woman—she couldn't be trusted, nor expected, to give up her life for a family she didn't even know. But Ian said nothing. His face was impassive.

"Okay," Hollywood said finally. He sounded slightly disconcerted, even disappointed. "Right then. We have three volunteers. Now, my good, cowardly friend, will you deign to put the gun down?"

It was with clear reluctance and even clearer self-loathing that Mark slid the gun across the floor. Immediately, true to his word, Green released Alex, who hurried to Jack and Ian's side.

"Alex," Jack whispered, hugging him tightly, kissing the top of his blonde hair, and making sure that the robbers hadn't hurt him too badly.

"I'm fine, Jack," Alex muttered, rolling his eyes.

"It'll be okay," Ian said, and sounded like he meant it.

"Of course it will," Hollywood chimed in, stepping forward. "Just a bang, and a bullet, and then a nice, long sleep."

He grabbed one of the guns from the floor and tossed it to Garcia, who had just finished untying Marconi. As his henchmen hurried to rejoin him, Hollywood shot them a look of pure venom that froze Jack's veins to ice. But, almost immediately, the congenial smile slipped back into place.

"Tie them up," he ordered, lazily.

Green removed a length of rope from the black duffel bag that the robbers had brought with them. Ian stepped forward, as though volunteering to be tied up first—really, Jack knew, he was testing his limits.

Immediately, Green and Marconi both whipped their guns around and aimed at him.

"Back off," Green snarled, his trigger finger twitching, while Marconi inched backward.

Ian raised his eyebrows. "Jumpy, aren't they?"

Hollywood chuckled. "For good reason. I've instructed them not to allow you within a distance that would put them in your range of motion," he explained. "You're too much fun."

"That wasn't part of the rules," Ian said, watching Hollywood's face closely for his reaction

For a millisecond, the handsome robber's face darkened; hatred like venom flashed in his eyes. "I make the rules," he snapped.

"Sure," Ian said, taking a reluctant step backward. "No problem."

One by one, the robbers tied each of the remaining hostages to a chair. When it was Ian's turn, the robbers forced Jack to tie down his arms first. She hesitated as she tied the knot, winced as she tightened it. Then she leaned over, under the pretense of looping the rope around the back of the chair. Her hair fell like a shiny red curtain between her face and the robbers.

"I don't know what the hell to do," she hissed in Ian's ear. "Any ideas?"

"A few," Ian whispered, cracking a slight smile—it was clearly for Jack's sake, but she appreciated it, nonetheless. "You're doing great, Jack. Just—get ready to play along."

Jack blinked. "Play along with what?"

Green and Marconi glared at her—she was taking a few seconds too long—and Marconi stepped closer, squinting at the ropes that Jack was reluctant to tie.

"Tighter," he ordered.

"Tighter," Ian agreed in a whisper. "Don't worry, Jack."

Jack sighed and yanked the ropes behind Ian's back, tying them tight. "This has been a hell of a birthday," she said softly. "I'm pretty sure I even heard some thunder earlier."

She was inches from his face. He smelled like coffee. She smelled like strawberry shampoo.

"We can sulk later," Ian whispered, his eyes sparkling.

Then Marconi grabbed Jack's shoulder and pulled her backward.

"Alright, sweetheart, your turn."

Marconi forced her into the next chair and bent to tie her up—as his hands worked, they managed to touch every place on her body that seemed the least likely. Ian was watching; his face grew darker, and more dangerous.

Meanwhile, Alex stared blankly ahead as Green tightened the ropes fiercely enough to cut off the boy's circulation.

"Tight enough?" Green growled.

Alex looked up at him. "The piercings are a good look for you," he said coolly.

Green's hand flew to the staples in his face, and, scowling, he ripped one of them out. Jack and Ian, bound side-by-side, exchanged glances.

"Sit tight, friends," Hollywood said pleasantly. "We'll be back with the rest of the guests in a few minutes, and then we'll play some nice party games." He held open the door for his henchmen. "You kids have fun."

And he slammed the door behind him.

_To Be Concluded :D_

**Don't kill me, please.... (hides) Hahaha, I'll come clean--it was a serious oversight to attempt to write this bank robbery story in one chapter. Instead, I'm separating it into three parts. The third and final chapter just needs to be tweaked a bit--it should be up pretty soon! Also, reviews always make me work faster, and I'm promised myself to start a) responding to all reviews again, and b) rewarding you wonderful people with cookies/ice cream/other wonderful treats! This week, my housemates and I had our friends over for an early Thanksgiving dinner, so we've got plenty of leftover turkey and cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie....yum!!!!!!! :D Hit the review button and help yourself!**

**Thanks so much to Twilight4eternity, armanifan101, xXx Winter Xmas xXx, Sharedsun, White Tempest, anoni, Sylaxas, Chaos Dragon, XCryingontheInsideX, Sacred3, Izzy-I.R.T., Alo Amicus, hypercell, EwanLuvr4Ever, The Feral Candy Cane, DarkElements10, Lil Lupin, Nylah, jesusfreak100percent, Rae, The Phantom Dragon, hehehe, Alice Starr, Random, lazyxhime, PrideIsArrogance, , hypercell, constant3, MiniZazou, Sexy Bookworm, Jusmine, KayCelestine, 1010'jin, reachforthesky, IamtheWalrus95, TheNotedMusician, Nyxelestia, MKofGod, prone2dementia, sockpuppet82, c00kieMonster, JaBoyYa, Turn-On-The-Stars, and guépard, who reviewed on the last couple chapters. You're all amazing, you know. :D**


	12. Umbrella

**Warning: ridiculously long chapter :)**

**Warning II: chapter rated T for VIOLENCE and LANGUAGE.**

**Enjoy!!!**

"Happy birthday to me," Jack mumbled.

Her toes barely scraped the threadbare carpet, but she couldn't reposition the chair, because her arms were pinned to her sides, her wrists tied behind her back. The chair creaked in the silent conference room. The hostages' collective mood was not optimistic; the assistant manager was crying, Daniel Brown was still struggling to catch his breath, and Ian was tied up somewhere behind Jack, so she couldn't even look to his calm face for reassurance.

"We left the top down on the Jaguar," Ian said conversationally. "I'm afraid your cake might be getting soggy again."

"Unless the picnic basket is waterproof," Alex suggested.

Jack sighed, pulling against the ropes cutting into her wrists. "You're both insane. Do you really think we should be worrying about birthday cake at this point?"

"We used real strawberries," Ian said, as though this ought to explain everything.

"And whipped frosting," Alex added. "It was supposed to be a surprise."

Jack smiled—she couldn't help herself. If Ian and Alex were trying to distract her from the situation, they were doing an impressive job. "Strawberry cake is my favorite," she admitted.

"I know," Ian said—and then, as a quiet afterthought: "Alex, can you push yourself toward me?"

"Maybe if I bribe the robbers with cake, they'll let us go," Jack muttered, lowering her eyes to the wood grain of the tabletop.

"Reach a little farther back," Ian was murmuring. "There you go. Hold onto that knot."

"Please, Lord," the dark-haired woman whispered—her voice sounded hoarse and unconvinced, but she prayed anyway. "Please help us."

Behind Jack, Ian inhaled sharply with momentary pain. "Hold very tight, Alex."

Jack frowned slightly. "Are you okay back there, Ian?"

"Peachy," Ian assured her.

Jack couldn't help but smirk. "Who says peachy?"

"Oh, everybody. Peachy is the new black."

"You do realize how insane you sound right now."

"Insane is the new peachy."

"So insane is the _new _new black?"

Suddenly, Ian's voice sounded much closer. "I suppose so."

Jack glanced back at him—and her jaw dropped. Ian was standing up, dropping a coil of rope to the conference room floor. He glanced with detached annoyance at the angry rope burns on his wrists and hands, and then he leaned over to untie Alex.

"How the hell—" Jack stammered.

"Magic," Ian said dryly; he was already loosening the rope around Alex's arms. As soon as Alex was free, Ian started untying Jack, and Alex began untying the blonde woman; within minutes, all of the remaining hostages were free. The ex-marine stumbled toward the door.

"Hang on." Ian caught the man's arm. "I'm willing to bet that there are two robbers with guns standing on the other side of this door."

"I'll take that bet," Mark snapped.

"If you step out into that corridor, the odds aren't in your favor," Ian said bluntly.

Mark glared wildly, wiping the glaze of sweat from his brow. "My shoulder is on _fire_. I need to do something—need to get the hell out of here. Maybe they didn't think to guard the door. Or maybe the guards will be too startled to shoot. For fuck's sake, we're supposed to be tied up."

Ian shook his head. "After what happened earlier, they won't underestimate us again. That's over."

Mark groaned and slumped against the wall. "If we're not making an escape, why'd you even bother untying us?"

"I could tie you up again, if you'd like," Ian said coldly.

Mark's face blanched; Jack glanced away, trying not to smirk. Her eyes landed on the dark-haired woman, sitting alone in the corner, clutching her cross necklace. The woman's fear seemed magnified with loneliness; there were tears in her eyes.

"Why don't you go talk to her?" Ian murmured.

Jack stared at him, startled. "Me?"

"She needs to feel like she's not alone, and I think you'd be able to relate to her better than I can."

"Okay," Jack said, trying to not sound too doubtful. "Did you forget about my chronic foot-in-mouth syndrome?"

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "I have utmost faith in you, Jack."

Jack repressed the urge to sigh. It was hard to argue with Ian's "utmost faith". With only a split second of hesitation, she crossed the room and sat down next to the dark-haired woman.

"I like your necklace," Jack offered, and then cringed inwardly—she hadn't known what else to say.

The dark-haired woman blinked. "Thanks."

"What's your name?"

"Clare."

"I'm Jack."

Clare forced a smile. "I know."

They sat in silence for a few minutes; the overhead lights flickered again.

"I want what you have," Clare burst out finally. "I just—I'm not married, and I've never been in love. I've never even—" She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Everything happens for a reason. But what the _hell _is the reason for this?"

"I'm not sure there is one," Jack said honestly.

Clare looked at Jack for a long moment. The fluorescent lights buzzed; the silence stretched. Across the room, Ian and Alex stood close together. Jack couldn't hear what they were saying, but Alex's eyes were somber, and Ian looked so calm that Jack knew he was at his most vulnerable.

Clare followed Jack's gaze. "You live with them?"

"I'm—the housekeeper," Jack said, wincing slightly at the inadequacy of the title.

For the first time, Clare's smile turned genuine. "How long have you been in love with him?"

"_What_?" Jack felt as though electricity had shocked her from head to toe; she registered the jolt somewhere near her heart. "I—I'm not—you have it all wrong. He just hired me to take care of Alex. Technically, I could just quit tomorrow. I would, if Alex didn't need me. He's like a brother to me. Alex, I mean." She paused. "And—and Ian, too, I guess."

"Okay," the dark-haired woman agreed, offering a small smile. "My mistake."

Jack's pulse was racing rather faster than usual. _Adrenaline_, she told herself. _Nerves._ Across the room, Ian pressed something into Alex' s hand, and Jack's heart fluttered with a fear she couldn't quite place.

Clare glanced at Jack. "Just so you know, he's in love with you, too."

For once, Jack didn't know what to say. She looked across the room at Ian again. Ian, the man who could see through her like a piece of glass—the man she'd known for years—the man she didn't know at all.

_He's in love with you, too._

Part of her wanted to deny it, but a smaller, more persistent part of her wanted to believe it.

ARARAR

"Did you miss me?" Hollywood mocked, smiling widely as he opened the conference room door.

Then he faltered, his eyes widening. All of the hostages were untied.

"How the hell—" Hollywood said slowly, scratching his chin with the barrel of his gun.

"I think Marconi could benefit from some instruction on how to tie a knot," Ian said.

Hollywood's smile glittered dangerously. "My friend, you have no idea how nice it'll be to see you dead. This party hasn't turned out quite how I'd planned."

Jack and Alex drew closer together, almost unconsciously. Ian didn't even blink.

"Trust me," he said. "The party hasn't even started yet."

Hollywood stared at Ian for a long moment, his handsome face twisted into a very ugly sneer. Then he brandished the gun.

"Everybody up! Out into the corridor! Let's go!"

Jack followed the group out into the corridor, and her heart sank. The other hostages, who had tried to escape earlier, were lined up execution style down the corridor. They all looked somber, helpless. Ashamed.

"They were blundering around the third floor," Hollywood explained, chuckling. "Trying to find a fire escape, from what I've gathered."

Ian swore under his breath. Jack flinched; she didn't like hearing Ian lose control, even for a split second. Alex's face was very pale.

"Now, where are my lucky contestants?" Marconi mocked, his eyes raking the line of hostages. "I believe we had three volunteers." His eyes flicked to Jack. "You can die second, sweetheart—I need to get warmed up first."

"Don't let your mind shut down, Jack," Ian said, very quietly. "I need you here."

"It'll be okay, Jack," Alex whispered, squeezing her hand.

Hollywood, who had been watching with a curious expression, dazzled Jack, Ian, and Alex with his toothpaste-advert smile. "Secrets, secrets are no fun," he intoned. "Secrets, secrets hurt someone."

"It's no secret," Alex spoke up calmly. "We were just wondering if Marconi's suit came with the ugly, or if he had to pay extra."

Marconi blinked, completely taken aback. "What?"

Hollywood smiled broadly. "Your pluck is delicious, Alex. But do you really think it's a good idea to taunt the man with the gun?"

"I wouldn't say 'man,'" Alex disagreed. "Gorilla seems more accurate."

"He has got quite the caveman's brow," Ian mused. "I hadn't noticed before."

Jack stared at the Riders as though they'd each sprouted an extra head. "What the _hell_," she hissed, "are you guys doing?"

Marconi sputtered a string of syllables and swearwords; Alex smirked, unbearably smug.

"Maybe you should try sticking to simple sentences for now," he suggested. "Nouns. Verbs. Incoherent grunts."

Jack didn't know what impressed her more—the fact that Alex seemed even more fluent in sarcasm than his uncle, or the fact that he knew the word 'incoherent.'

"I swear to God, boy," Marconi growled, twisting at his necklace in agitation. "I'm not supposed to kill you yet, but if my trigger-finger should happen to slip—"

"I'm not too worried," Alex said matter-of-factly. "I expect you haven't quite gotten the hang of hand-eye coordination yet." He glanced at Marconi's greasy dark hair. "Or the concept of bathing."

Jack knew immediately that Alex had gone too far. In a rush of anger, Marconi lunged forward, grabbed Alex, and jerked him away from the row of hostages. Suddenly, for the second time in twenty minutes, Alex was being held at gunpoint.

"I will _not _be insulted by this snot-nosed brat!" Marconi shouted furiously. "This isn't what I bloody signed up for."

Jack couldn't move; she couldn't even breathe.

"Let go of him," Ian said quietly.

"Fuck no," Marconi snarled, brandishing the gun—Alex flinched, and his hands flew up instinctively, trying to push the gun away. Then Marconi jabbed the barrel into Alex's back again, and Hollywood, who had been watching with bemused interest, lifted a casual hand.

"That's enough, Marconi. The boy's harmless. You can shoot him later."

Marconi stared at his boss for a long, furious moment. Jack couldn't speak—she felt as though barbed wire was constricting her chest. Alex stood frozen, the gun at his back.

"The kid needs to learn some respect," Marconi mumbled, slightly abashed.

"Let him go," Hollywood said firmly.

Visibly deflating, Marconi shoved Alex back to the row of hostages. The boy collided with Jack, who didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Alex," she said hoarsely, "don't ever scare me like that again."

"Alright, Alex?" Ian said in a low voice.

Alex nodded slowly, and for a split second, Jack thought she saw a glint of triumph in Ian's eyes. Then it was gone, and Marconi was pacing the row of hostages again.

"Contestant number one," he snarled, nodding at Clare. "Step right up."

Clare's whole body was trembling. As soon as Marconi pointed the gun at her, the woman sank down to the floor.

"Or sit," Marconi muttered. "Sitting is fine."

"Have mercy on your servant," Clare whispered, her voice shaking so violently that the words sounded almost foreign.

Marconi laughed harshly. "I don't want a servant. I want to shoot you in the head."

Jack blinked. It was only due to the years she'd spent with Ian, and the subtleties that she'd learned from listening to him every day, that she heard the waver in Marconi's voice. This man was not as bloodthirsty as he was trying to come across. He was uncertain. Maybe even—scared.

"Ian," she whispered. "I don't think Marconi—"

"Say something about shrapnel and arterial bleeding," Ian muttered, very fast. "And fragmentation, maybe."

Jack stared at him. "Um—excuse me?"

"And it'll need to be disinfected," Ian added under his breath. "That's very important, Jack. You'll need something to clean the wound."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jack hissed.

"You're going to help."

"Help who?"

"Who do you think?"

Jack followed Ian's gaze to Marconi, whose gun was aimed steadily at Clare.

"I'm—I'm not a doctor, Ian," she stammered.

"No." Ian's blue eyes were intense and calm, penetrating the haze that seemed to have settled in Jack's mind. "Let's say you're a nursing student. Second year. It'll give you an excuse if something happens that you can't fake your way through."

"_What_?" Jack hissed. She felt as though Ian had suddenly slipped into a lost dialect of ancient Greek; either that, or Jack had suffered a sudden, very specific bout of amnesia.

"Please," Clare was whispering.

Marconi's finger tightened on the trigger. "Any last words?"

"Please, God."

Marconi snorted. "You really think God is going to help you now?" His voice dripped with scorn. "You think he's gonna get up off his fluffy white throne and ride the express elevator down to hell and take this bullet for you? Does that seem bloody _likely_?"

Clare met his eyes. She was shaking, but her face was clear.

"No," she said. "He probably won't stop the bullet. That's not what I'm praying for."

The robber's eyes flickered with doubt, for less than a second. Then he laughed harshly. "If God doesn't want me to murder you, I dare him to try and stop me."

Jack held her breath, and Ian's lip twitched slightly, and Marconi squeezed the trigger.

And the gun exploded in his hand.

"AHHGH!"

Marconi clutched his mangled right hand; the gun clattered to the floor.

"FUCK!"

The wound was bleeding heavily. Marconi's fingers were still intact, but pieces of jagged metal had sliced into his hand. He tore off his suit jacket and stared, horrified; his white sleeve looked as though it had been dipped in red paint.

"Jack," Ian said in a low voice. "That's your cue."

The hostages were silent and pale-faced. On the other end of the corridor, Hollywood looked nonplussed. "What in God's name is wrong with you, Marconi? First you can't tie a bloody knot, and now you shoot your own hand off?"

"I didn't do anything!" Marconi's eyes were wide, shining with terror. "I just—pulled the trigger—FUCK! What—my fucking hand—"

"Jack," Ian whispered urgently.

Jack took a deep breath. She suddenly understood what Ian had been talking about. Jack was the next hostage in line to be shot. As soon as Marconi calmed down about the wound in his hand, he—or another of the robbers—would eliminate Jack like a pawn in a game of chess.

Unless she suddenly became much less expendable.

"Hold still," Jack ordered, striding forward and trying to sound like the head nurse on ER. "Let me see your hand."

"What the—" The man jerked his hand away as though he'd touched a white-hot flame.

"I'm a nursing student," Jack said impatiently. "The explosion caused severe fragmentation—we need to remove the shrapnel and stem the flow of blood."

He stared at her, wildly suspicious. "You don't look like a nurse."

Jack could feel Ian watching her closely. She took a deep breath. "If you continue to bleed out at this rate, you'll be dead in ten minutes. If the arterial bleeding is severe, you'll be dead in five."

Marconi whimpered, in very unmanly fashion. "Boss, I can't lose my fingers. I play the cello."

Jack almost laughed; it was so absurd. Hollywood's porcelain smile glittered.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Jackie," he said, "but you have nothing to gain by helping the man who was about to kill you."

Jack's voice was tight: "Correct me if _I'm _wrong, but you've never seen a guy on the operating table who ignored the shrapnel in his hand and ended up with severe blood poisoning, arterial damage, and three missing fingers."

There was a beat of silence. Marconi's face was a sheet of paper, his mangled hand trembling.

"Okay, fucking help him," Hollywood muttered. "For the love of God."

ARARAR

"We need something to clean the wound," Jack said, for the umpteenth time.

For a long moment, no one spoke. She, the other hostages, and the robbers had moved downstairs to the marble lobby, to fetch a pair of tweezers from Clare's purse. Jack had used these small silver tweezers to dig the shards of metal out of Marconi's flesh—he had screamed the whole time, and Jack felt deeply thankful that she hadn't thrown up yet.

"No one is leaving the bank," Hollywood said flatly. "Nice try, darling."

"The wound needs to be disinfected, or he could lose his hand," Jack pressed. "Does anyone have any—any—" She tried to think of what nurses would typically use to disinfect a wound. Tried. Failed. "Well, an over-the-counter disinfectant should work. Hydrogen peroxide, alcohol—"

"There's wine in the car," Ian offered. "Alex can go out and get it."

Jack met his eyes. "That would work."

Hollywood smiled pityingly. "You're too predictable, Ian. A typical father—self-sacrificing and moronic. You want the boy to go out and get the wine, so he'll have a chance to escape. But if the boy escapes, he'll bring the police. And we can't have them crashing our private party, can we?"

"He's a ten-year-old boy," Ian said, his voice strained.

Hollywood dazzled him with a smile. "Exactly right, Ian. Now, you're going to go out to the parking lot and grab the alcohol. Green will accompany you. And if you make even a speck of trouble, you'll come back to find a ten-year-old boy bleeding all over this nice marble floor."

Ian swallowed hard. Jack stared at him, desperate for any sign that this was a part of his plan.

"Okay," Ian said finally. "I'll be right back, Alex."

He and Green moved past the group, toward the glass double doors; Jack tried to catch Ian's eye as he passed, and for a split second, Ian flashed her a ghost of a smile. _Well done, Jack._ And in that split second, Jack almost believed that everything would turn out okay.

ARARAR

_Each raindrop burst like a tiny tsunami on the pavement; Jack could hardly see through the downpour. The storebought cake had collapsed, its frosting sagging like a chocolate mudslide. Jack squinted at Ian. He was smiling slightly. _

"_Did you make your wish, Jack?"_

"_I guess so."_

"_Should we make it come true now?"_

_Jack stared down into the dark puddles. She had wished for something simple, something that was sitting right next to her—and something that she would never have. _

"_Maybe next year," she said finally, wishing she could've had some candles to blow out._

ARARAR

Hollywood poured wine into a plastic cup from the bank's water cooler. Jack had already splashed the wine over Marconi's hand and bandaged the wound; now, under Garcia and Marconi's guard, all of the hostages had been returned to the conference room—all except Jack, Ian, Alex, and Clare.

Hollywood swirled the deep red liquid, smelled it briefly, and took a sip. Jack watched him incredulously.

"Not too bad," Hollywood complimented Ian. "Merlot?"

"Bordeaux," Ian corrected. "1986."

"It's very smooth," Hollywood said, taking another sip. "Reminds me of Sharpham red."

Ian raised his eyebrows with cool disdain. "Really? I've always felt that English wine tastes like the sort of liquid that might be extracted from a cat."

Hollywood's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You know, Ian, I'm torn between wanting to keep you around, just for fun, and wanting to kill you as painfully as possible." He downed the rest of the wine in one gulp. "Inside the vaults, please."

Jack glanced at the two empty vaults behind her, side by side, like twin coffins. Green shoved Alex and Clare into one of the vaults, and motioned for Jack and Ian to enter the other. But Jack refused to budge.

"I volunteered for this. So did Ian and Clare. Why does Alex have to die?"

Hollywood smiled cheekily. "Because I said so, darling."

"Stay calm, Alex," Ian said quietly. "You trust me, don't you?"

The boy nodded, but he looked slightly doubtful. "Yes."

"That's enough," Hollywood said impatiently—he slammed the vault door on Alex and Clare, and before Jack could even blink, before she could say a word, Alex was gone. Locked inside.

"Alex," she whispered.

Green grabbed Jack by the arm and threw her into the other vault; she landed hard on the steel floor. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, wondering what she'd done to deserve this, and then Ian was helping her up.

"Alright, Jack?"

Jack nodded, feeling sick and hopeless. The vault smelled stale and coppery, like dried blood. There were no lights. She looked defiantly out at Hollywood. "Won't you be joining us?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"You're not a very courteous host."

Hollywood's smile widened. "Well, you're not a very abiding guest." He stepped backward and grabbed the handle of the vault. "I'll let you out if we need any more medical help—otherwise, I suppose this is good-bye. It has truly been a pleasure."

"Likewise," Ian said.

For a split second, Hollywood's eyes flickered with uncertainty. Then he laughed, gave a mock salute, and wrenched shut the vault door.

"What do we do now?" Jack whispered.

Her voice sounded thin to her own ears. The vault was pitch-black, no light, no sound—it was as though someone had stolen God's remote control and muted the world.

"Hang on," Ian said.

She heard him moving to her right; a few seconds later, a light flared up in the darkness. Ian was holding a small, luminous disk. He stuck it to the wall, where it cast a dim, gentle glow over the vault.

"Where'd you get that?" Jack said, squinting.

"I grabbed it from the car. It's sort of—a portable reading light."

Jack sighed—the issue wasn't worth pursuing—and scanned the vault. It was hardly big enough to fit two people. Ian stood against one wall, and Jack against the other, with barely two feet of space between them. There was no air vent that Jack could see.

"Ian," she said, "I trust you, but this—this looks bad."

Ian's eyes swept over the steel-reinforced walls. "It could be much worse."

"Yeah?" Jack felt her temper rising. "How do you figure?"

"Judging by the dimensions of the vault, the half-inch ventilation tube in the corner, and the average lung capacity of two adults, we'll be able to survive for at least an hour before the carbon dioxide level becomes lethal. Alex and Clare have perhaps twenty minutes longer."

Jack sighed. "Ian, what part of that statement was supposed to make me feel better?"

He didn't answer. Jack sighed and toyed with her Japanese earrings. She knew that they were lucky that Hollywood hadn't simply shot them, lucky that Ian had manipulated Hollywood into letting the "nursing student" and her friends live for a little while longer. But it was hard to see the bright side to this situation. A bullet might've been kinder; it certainly would've been quicker.

"I spy with my little eye," Jack intoned, "something—metal-colored."

Ian regarded her with a mixture of incredulity and amusement. "Have I ever mentioned how utterly ridiculous you are?"

"Once or twice."

Ian shook his head, and they stood in silence for the next quarter of an hour, Ian leaning against the wall with his hands tucked into his pockets, Jack counting the minutes and trying to make her breaths as shallow as possible. Her mind flew from topic to topic—and, inevitably, it landed on Ian.

"I just want to know," she said, breaking the silence. "in case we die. Where do all your injuries come from?"

Ian ironed his face with his hands. "Jack, for God's sake—"

"Don't," she snapped. "Ian, we could be dead in forty five minutes."

"I've told you—"

"No, you haven't." Suddenly, her green eyes were blazing. "Don't tell me you bruised your arm during an adventure climb in Brisbane. Don't tell me you sprained your shoulder in some Austrian caving system during your time off. I've heard your excuses before."

"I can't help whether you believe me or not," he said, with a half-shrug.

Jack let out her breathe in frustration. "Ian, please. Tell the truth."

"The truth," he said firmly, "is that everything will be fine."

Jack stared at him. Even in the dim light, she could see the deeper shades in his blue eyes. He was almost as close as he'd been two years ago, when he and Jack had sat side-by-side and listened to the Fantasie impromptu. Now, surrounded by steel-reinforced concrete, counting every breath as though it might be her last, Jack realized that she'd been lying to herself. She didn't really care if she died without knowing the truth about Ian.

She was more concerned that Ian might die without knowing the truth about her.

"Ian," she said softly.

He offered a small smile. "Don't sound so hopeless. Everything will be—"

"Ian," Jack repeated, looking him straight in the eye, "I love you."

And there it was. She spoke the words softly, almost apologetically, and then the silence was deafening. A few years ago, Jack would've thought Ian looked expressionless, but now she could read his face. He was shocked, reluctant, almost angry—and something else.

"I'm not looking for anything in return," she added quickly. "I just wanted you to know. And—I guess now I've trapped us in a pretty uncomfortable situation, huh? Maybe we should do some cardio, use up the oxygen in here a little faster, because this next hour is going to be pretty awkward—"

A ghost of a smile crossed Ian's face. "Save your breath, Jack."

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "That seems counterproductive."

Surprisingly, Ian laughed. Then, even more surprisingly, he stepped forward, cupped her chin, and tilted her face up, so that she was forced to meet his gaze. In his blue eyes, there was more hesitation, more self-loathing, and more reckless abandon than she'd ever seen there.

"Just for the record," he said slowly, "this is a bad idea."

"Dually noted," Jack whispered.

Then he was closing the distance, and Jack couldn't believe this was happening, and his lips were so close that she could almost taste them—

And the vault door squealed open.

"Where'd you hide it?" Green growled, bursting inside.

Before Jack could move, the big robber shoved her out of the way and punched Ian, hard. Ian was sent reeling against the wall, and Green hit him from behind. Jack screamed; she couldn't help herself.

"I suppose you think you're clever," Hollywood said, all traces of good humor gone from his face.

"You could say that," Ian managed, pushing himself to his feet.

"Where'd you hide the safety deposit keys?" Green demanded.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Green pummeled Ian in the stomach this time; Jack leapt across the vault and grabbed for the gun, but Green shoved her backward again.

"Don't kill him yet," Hollywood advised, as Ian collapsed, groaning, to the vault floor. "We need to get the information out of him."

"Thanks," Ian said, his voice ragged. "I appreciate you not killing me till later."

Hollywood's smile was friendly, not mocking. "Not at all, friend. If we'd met under alternate circumstances, we might've gone out for a pint." He glanced at Green. "Make him talk by any means necessary. We need to get into those safety deposit boxes and get the hell out of here."

Green dragged Ian out of the vault and threw him across the corridor, into an open conference room. Without any semblance of a plan, Jack ran after them, but Ian shook his head, his eyes widening significantly. _Don't._

Jack froze, scared and confused and exceptionally pissed off. Then Green stalked into the conference room after Ian and slammed the door behind him, and Hollywood leaned against the wall, supremely unconcerned, his hands in his pockets. From inside the conference room, Jack heard Ian cry out in pain.

"This party," Hollywood murmured, "is really not going according to plan."

"Maybe you should've thought about that before you started shooting," Jack said flatly.

From inside the conference room, Green shouted in surprise. Hollywood cocked his head sideways and smiled. "Sounds like Ian's giving him a little trouble. Can't say I'm surprised."

Jack felt a rush of pride at his words. "Me neither."

Then there came the unmistakable crack of a bullet.

"Oh God," Jack whispered.

She and Hollywood stared at each other, hanging motionless in a shared limbo, each of their lives depending on who had been killed, and who was holding the gun—Green, or Ian.

"Bloody hell," Hollywood muttered, scratching his head.

The conference room door opened halfway. Green emerged into the corridor, looking sheepish. Jack's heart dropped; Hollywood smiled complacently.

"Sorry, boss." Green shut the door behind him. "There's a bit of a mess in there."

Hollywood regarded his henchman with dangerous calm. "You shot him?"

Green nodded brusquely, and Jack felt as though someone had swung a hundred pound weight into her face. She couldn't breathe, couldn't speak.

"You _shot _him?" Hollywood's eyes were wild and furious. "How are we supposed to get information out of a dead man? I mean, for Christ's sake—"

"He tried to take my gun," Green said defensively. "I didn't have a choice. Besides, it's not like we'd be able to sit around and question him the whole bloody day. How long do you think it'll take somebody to look at this bank and call the cops?"

"I'm not walking away from this heist without something to show for it," Hollywood said frostily.

"Well, I'm not walking back into prison."

There was a long silence. Down the corridor, Garcia was pacing nervously, and Marconi was picking at the bloody bandages on his hand.

"This is the worst party I've ever had," Hollywood said finally, heaving a sigh. "Shoot the hostages. Grab the cash. And let's get the hell out of here."

_Shoot the hostages. _Jack's heart skipped a beat. "No! Wait—"

The robbers ignored her. Marconi opened the conference room door, and Garcia burst inside with his gun held in front of him, his dark eyes greedy. Then the robbers' jaws dropped.

"What the—"

The room was nearly empty. Marconi and Garcia were just in time to see a shiny wing-tipped shoe disappear up past the ceiling tiles. Ian, who had been hoisting the hostages to safety, stood alone in the middle of the room—and suddenly smoke was everywhere. The dark billows were pouring from what seemed to be a small candle. Within seconds, Ian had disappeared, and the smoke had flooded the corridor, and the robbers realized that something was very wrong.

"Boss!" Marconi shouted—he fired blindly into the smoke. "I can't see!"

"Green, you said Ian was dead!" Garcia shouted wildly. "You said you shot him!"

"Did I?" Green grunted—and before anybody could react, Green had punched Garcia in the face and sprinted down the smoky corridor.

ARARAR

"_Nice car," Green grunted._

_Ian opened the door of the glossy blue Jaguar. "Thanks."_

_It was pouring rain; Ian's gray cotton shirt was drenched, his fair hair sticking to him, and Green's plain black clothes were dripping wet, his square face running with raindrops. Inside the bank, Hollywood was holding Alex at gunpoint, waiting for Ian and Green to return. Ian leaned over and pressed a panel of wood on the dashboard; a hidden compartment above the glove box slid open._

"_What the hell you doing?" Green grunted, grabbing Ian's wrist before he could reach inside. "You're supposed to be grabbing the wine."_

"_I have some gauze in here," Ian replied flatly. "I thought it might help your friend."_

"_He's not my friend," Green snarled. "And I'll grab the gauze." _

_He shoved Ian aside, reached into the compartment, and grabbed the role of gauze and the medical tape next to it. _

"_You keep this in your car?" Green muttered, stuffing the medical supplies into his pocket._

"_You could say I'm accident prone," Ian said dryly. He reached for the picnic basket. Hesitated. Glanced back at the robber. "I'm sorry about your brother."_

_Without warning, Ian felt as though a truck had slammed into him—Green had grabbed Ian and thrown him face-first against the hood of the convertible. Ian was pinned beneath the man's weight, the side of his face pressed against the slick metal. Green was heavier and stronger, but it didn't matter; Ian had no desire to throw the man off. If he succeeded, it would only endanger Alex's life._

"_What do you know about my brother?" Green snarled, inches away from Ian's ear._

"_I just said I'm sorry," Ian said, wincing as Green's elbow dug into his back. "My brother was murdered, too."_

"_How'd you know about my brother to begin with?"_

"_Your tattoo," Ian said through gritted teeth. "The teardrop under your eye. You must've gotten it while you were imprisoned in Swansea. The outline is colored in—that means you've avenged your brother's murder." He swallowed hard. "I wish I could say the same." _

_There was a long silence, punctuated only by the pulse of the rain. Then, abruptly, Green released Ian and backed away. "Grab the wine and let's go."_

_Ian pushed himself up. "At least you got the sonnuvabitch that did it," he muttered, reaching for the picnic basket._

"_It didn't help," Green said unexpectedly._

_Ian glanced back at the robber. "Sorry?"_

"_Killing the sunnuvabitch who stabbed my brother to death. It didn't help. Not even a little bit."_

_Ian stared at him, incredulous. "You're saying I shouldn't bother avenging my brother's death?" _

"_No. I'm saying you should find the guy who killed him. And then you should torture him slowly. Killing is too easy. Leaves too much undone. You gotta make the fucker beg."_

"_Well, I'd love to," Ian said, with an edge of bitterness. "But if your boss's little party goes the way he's planned, it looks like I'll never get the chance."_

_Green blinked, but didn't reply. Ian retrieved the bottle of wine, studying Green's face in the reflection of the left-hand mirror. There was a glint of something new, a shadow of uncertainty, in the robber's cold eyes. It was enough. _

"_Your boss is quite a character, isn't he?" Ian said._

"_He's pulled a thousand heists like this. He knows what he's doing."_

"_And he knows how to steal the greatest profit and leave you with nothing, I'm sure," Ian added._

"_I'll get my share."_

_Ian laughed humorlessly. "The man's a textbook psychopath. He'll use you, and then he'll throw you away—probably with a bullet in the back of your head."_

_Again, no response. Ian could feel Green's willpower in his hands, soft as clay, brittle as dried blood. Everything hinged on this moment. Ian measured his next words carefully. _

"_Maybe," he said slowly, "we can help each other."_

ARARAR

Jack coughed, her eyes watering. The corridor was full of smoke. She wanted to find Ian, but from out of nowhere, Hollywood grabbed Jack's arm and pulled her blindly along. She could see his face, calculating, furious.

"Don't try anything," Hollywood hissed. "You're going to be my little hostage, okay, sweetheart?"

From somewhere behind her, she heard Ian's voice.

"Don't you say a word," Hollywood warned, his grip on her arm tightening painfully. "Not one peep."

Jack glanced down at his hand, and then met his eyes, cool and defiant. "Ian!" she screamed, so loudly she thought her throat might tear.

Swearing furiously, Hollywood released Jack's arm and fled, emptying his gun in desperation, hoping to hit Ian in the smoke; he had barely taken two steps before Ian wrenched the gun from his hand. Hollywood tried to take a swing; Ian blocked it, and then tossed the gun to Jack. She caught it and immediately dropped it, as though the metal was red-hot.

Ian rubbed his forehead. "Jack, for God's sake—"

"Look out!" Jack shouted.

Behind Ian, Garcia had just emerged from the smoke, and at the same moment, Hollywood took another swing. Ian dropped Hollywood with an elbow jab, deflected Garcia's attack with a fast back-kick, and pulled Jack close, so he could whisper in her ear.

"Get Alex and Clare outside. I'll join you in a few minutes."

"Alex and Clare?" Jack repeated, blinking against the smoke. "But aren't they—"

As if on cue, Alex and Clare skidded into view; Green had released them from the vault, per Ian's instructions. "Where's the fire?" Alex asked, coughing.

"In the conference room," Ian said, "but don't worry about it. The fire shouldn't spread. And the smoke triggered the automatic alarm linked to the fire department. They'll be here soon."

Suddenly, Jack understood why Ian must've set the fire. "You didn't have a phone?" she guessed

He nodded. "They cut the phone lines after Alex tried to call the police, and I didn't have a cell phone with me. Fire department was the next best thing." He pressed the handle of the gun into her hand, and this time she held onto it. "If you run into any of the robbers, this might help. It's not loaded, but—"

"I can still use it," Jack agreed.

Garcia was moving to attack Ian again. With only a moment's hesitation, Jack, Alex, and Clare took off down the corridor, toward the cubicles. Up ahead, Jack could see the doorway that led to the stairs. But she could also see Marconi's dark silhouette, blocking the doorway.

"Shit," Jack whispered, stopping short; Alex and Clare crashed into her from behind.

Then Marconi turned around, and through the dwindling smoke, he spotted three motionless shadows.

"Come on," Alex hissed, pulling Jack into one of the cubicles.

A split second later, a gunshot split the air. Clare cried out involuntarily, and Marconi fired another shot. Jack looked around frantically. The cubicle was small. A box of paper clips, a paperweight, and a mug of old coffee rested on the desktop; there wasn't even a stapler this time.

"You can't hide forever!" Marconi shouted roughly; Jack could hear his footsteps approaching, very fast, and another bullet cracked like a whip through the air.

Steeling herself, Jack stood up and grabbed the stone paperweight. She was strongly reminded of taking up the iron in the laundry room. Beside her, Alex's lip twitched slightly.

"What's so funny?" Jack muttered.

"We don't have the luckiest birthdays, do we?"

Then Marconi was there, and Jack abandoned all restraint and flung the paperweight at his face. He shouted, bringing up both hands to defend himself—but somehow managed to hold onto the gun.

"Shit," Jack whispered again, backing away.

The robber aimed the gun into Jack's face and stepped brazenly into the cubicle. "I never did get my dessert, did I, sweetheart?"

"Ian!" Jack shouted, scanning the cubicle desperately for another weapon.

Marconi laughed harshly and took another step forward, ignoring Alex completely. Jack could see ideas forming in the ten-year-old boy's head. He adopted a stance that, in Jack's opinion, looked a little too familiar.

"Better not kill me yet," Jack warned. "I have a feeling you're going to need a nurse again soon."

Then Alex made his move. Before Marconi knew what was happening, the boy spun into a perfect roundhouse kick. He aimed not for the man's gun hand, but for the hand that was bleeding and wrapped with gauze. The kick made a solid connection; Marconi screamed and dropped the gun, clutching the wound.

"BLOODY—"

Jack leapt for the gun, but even in agony, Marconi was able to kick the weapon out of her reach. He grabbed Jack roughly by the arm, but then Alex struck the robber again, a simple jab, and Marconi released Jack, laughing mockingly. The blow had stung a little, sure, but did the little brat really think—

"Drink up," Alex said, splashing the coffee into the man's eyes.

"AHHGH!"

The coffee wasn't hot—an employee must've left it overnight—but the black liquid surprised Marconi and blinded him for a split second, giving Jack, Clare, and Alex a chance to escape into the corridor. They nearly collided with Ian, who skidded to a stop and looked from Jack to Alex.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes—but Ian, he's right behind us—"

Then Marconi was there, a knife glinting in his hand. He swung it fiercely, and Jack screamed—but suddenly Ian was in front of her. He blocked Marconi's first swing of the knife and dodged the second deadly arc, keeping Jack, Alex, and Clare behind him.

"Go," Ian ordered, his eyes locked on the blade.

Jack hesitated a split second.

"Jack, please, just _go_!"

It was the first time he had said "please," and his urgency gave Jack no choice. She ran, Alex and Clare alongside her, flying down the corridor faster than they'd ever run before.

Behind them, Ian dodged another strike; Marconi threw the knife at him in desperation. Ian rolled across the office floor, the deadly blade missing him by inches. He paused—although he knew it was a mistake, although his years of experience urged against it, although John Rider would've never let him live it down—he paused to glance down the corridor and make sure that Jack and Alex were safe.

When he looked up again, he found himself staring into the barrel of Marconi's gun.

"You have no idea how satisfying this will be," the robber hissed.

He pulled the trigger, and Ian knew that he was dead, and he wondered if his mistake had been letting Jack into his life, or not letting her in sooner.

ARARAR

"_I was trying to find the best way to thank you."_

"_Happiness is not in the job description."_

"_I love you." _

ARARAR

The gun gave a hollow click.

Marconi's eyes widened; he squeezed the trigger again and again, to no avail.

If Ian hadn't been so shocked by his own carelessness, he might've laughed. He knew what had happened: in the struggle with Jack, Marconi's loaded gun must've gotten mixed up with Jack's emptied one.

"Maybe you've got the saints on your side," Ian said, wrenching the gun from the man's grip, "but the luck of the devil runs in my family."

ARARAR

"—_We repeat, the severe thunderstorm warning has been lifted. The storm is expected to dissipate by three o' clock this afternoon, although some areas of London may still experience scattered showers—"_

ARARAR

The smoke was clearing. Ian had subdued Hollywood, Garcia, and Marconi, and locked them inside one of the vaults; he wondered, vaguely, if they would still be alive when the police found them. Outside, the fire engines were wailing; Ian knew that Jack must've already told someone to call the police. Slowly, Ian approached the doorway to the safety deposit room. Green was inside; he'd already stuffed his black duffel bag full of cash, and now he was rifling through the boxes for anything of value.

As soon as Ian stepped through the doorway, Green turned around, leveling his gun.

"Ian," he said quietly. "I was almost hoping you'd have left by now—but I knew you'd come find me."

Ian heard the understanding, the quiet ruthlessness, in the man's voice, and knew that this scene would play out differently than the rest. "I thought we were supposed to be working together," he said. "You help me save my family; I help you get all the money you can carry."

"Plans change," Green said flatly.

"Of course," Ian agreed, taking another careful step. "In fact, I was thinking the same thing."

They stared at each other for a long moment, reading, calculating. Outside, the fire engine wailed; Green would have to leave quickly, or face the police.

"You're not really a banker, are you?" Green said finally.

Ian smiled slightly. "You were never planning to let me go, were you?"

"No, 'fraid not." Green cocked the gun. "I won't kill your family, but you're too damn good."

"In what sense of the word?"

Green ignored him. "If I let you live, you'll land me in prison before long."

"You're right," Ian agreed. "Shoot me."

The words hung in the air, foreign, double-edged. Suddenly doubtful, Green looked down at the gun in his hand.

"Go on," Ian said flatly. "Pull the trigger."

"Marconi's gun," Green realized, staring at Ian as though truly seeing him for the first time. "You did something to it. You made it explode. And you did something to this gun, too."

"Did I?" Ian said, with a cold half-smile. "That would've been clever of me."

"How?" Green demanded.

Ian's smile faded. "You were right, Green. I'm not a banker. And you won't be the first man I've killed."

Green stared at Ian, reading his blue eyes. For a shocking moment, the robber could see the truth. Everything that had happened during the robbery—the fight between Ian and the ex-marine, the exploding gun, Green and Ian's excursion out to the Jaguar—none of it had been a coincidence.

"What are you?" Green whispered. "An assassin?"

"Not quite."

"Does the bitch know?"

For a split second, Ian was caught off-guard. "What?"

"Your girlfriend. Does she know? Is she part of all this?"

_No_, Ian thought, _And yes_.

"Enough," Ian said, allowing his impatience to color his voice. "Why don't you shoot me in the heart, like you know you want to?"

There was a long, tense silence. Green quivered on the edge of indecision; Ian watched calmly. Then, with a cry of frustration, Green dropped the gun to the floor and leapt away from it, as though it was a bomb with the timer ticking down to zero.

Infuriatingly calm, Ian stepped forward, picked up the gun, and fired a clean round into the ceiling. Then he aimed the gun right between Green's eyes.

"Get on the floor," he ordered. "Put your hands on your head."

Outside, police sirens were wailing.

ARARAR

Ten minutes later, it was still raining, a light drizzle that spotted the pavement and washed away Jack's residual fear. She and Alex leaned against the back of the Jaguar, watching the reflections of the red and blue lights in the dark puddles. Ian was walking toward them, his hands tucked into his pockets. He sat beside Alex and ruffled his nephew's wet blonde hair. "I did pack my umbrella, but I suppose there's no point in it, anymore."

"I guess not," Alex agreed, grinning slightly.

They watched as the police hauled the robbers one-by-one into squad cars, their wrists cuffed behind their backs. The rest of the hostages lingered in the parking lot, chattering, sharing umbrellas; the police wanted to ask everyone questions about the robbery. One of the officers pulled Alex aside, asking to hear his side of what had happened.

"Ian," Jack said slowly, as Alex moved out of earshot.

Ian raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Jack sighed. He wasn't going to make this easy. "First of all, I can't figure out how we're not dead right now. Or, to be more blunt, how the hell you saved us. I mean, you're a banker. Supposedly. How did you know what to do?"

"I wasn't lying when I said I'd been taught how to handle a bank robbery," he said matter-of-factly. "Our staff receives training every year."

Jack rolled her eyes. "Do you expect me to believe that the Royal and General trains you to fake a fight with an ex-marine, disarm a trained gunman, get the shit kicked out of you, and burn the whole place down when you're done?"

"They've obviously put out the fire by now," Ian said, with a tinge of defensiveness.

Jack bit back a laugh—she was trying to be serious. "Ian, that's not the point."

"Okay, I'll play along," he said, meeting her eyes. "What is the point?"

"You fought three guys by yourself."

"I've been a black belt since I was a teenager," he reminded her.

"You made Marconi's gun explode."

"I blocked the barrel with a steel bearing from one of the chairs. Anyone could learn the same trick from action movies."

"You—" She hesitated. "Right now, you look sort of like you've just come home from a business trip."

He didn't have an answer for that—at least, not immediately. And somehow, despite the fact that she hated being lied to and hated having to worry about him all the time, Jack felt a twinge of guilt.

"Ian," she said, her voice softer, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have caused a scene when we were in the conference room. I shouldn't have doubted you. And when we were in the vault—what I said—it really wasn't the right time to—"

"Jack."

Ian's voice was sharp; she met his eyes sheepishly.

"I know," she said. "Foot-in-mouth syndrome."

"It's your birthday," he reminded her. "Why don't we celebrate, and worry about all the rest later?"

Jack forced a smile. On the one hand, he was right—but on the other hand, she had a shrewd suspicion that 'later' was a code word for 'never.'

"I have been wanting a slice of strawberry cake," she admitted.

They opened the picnic basket—which, in fact, turned out to be waterproof—and Ian cut the cake. Jack's first bite was perfect—sweet, light, and moist.

"Are you guys sure you baked this yourselves?" she joked. "It doesn't seem possible."

"Ye of little faith," Ian said, grinning slightly. "There's a lot about me that might surprise you."

Jack laughed and scooped another forkful of cake, wondering if he was joking. Then she met his eyes, and just for a moment, his smile faded, and suddenly neither of them were joking. With an eerie shiver of déjà vu, Jack wished she had some candles to blow out. But what did it matter, anyway?

_Maybe next year._

She took another bite of cake, but suddenly the strawberries seemed a little less sweet.

ARARAR

It wasn't until they'd returned home, after Alex had gone upstairs to change his clothes and Ian had started putting away the leftover food, that something occurred to Jack.

"Ian," she said slowly, "you made the gun explode."

"That was my intention," he agreed, sliding the cake onto the top shelf of the refrigerator. "It was pure luck that it worked."

"You put something in the barrel of Marconi's gun."

He glanced back at her, eyebrows raised. "Your point being?"

Jack was staring at him as though seeing him for the first time. "After the first fight, the robbers avoided you like the plague," she said numbly. "You were never close enough to slip anything into the gun."

He didn't say anything, but something in his face hardened, and suddenly Jack felt as though she was looking at the man Ian had been three years ago, distant and unreadable.

"Ian," she whispered, shaking her head. A rush of grainy images flooded her mind. Ian and Alex talking quietly in the conference room—Ian pressing something into his nephew's hand—Alex taunting Marconi until the robber grabbed him in anger—a glint of triumph in Ian's eye—

"He's ten years old," Jack said aloud.

"The robbers weren't letting me anywhere near them," he said quietly. "I needed someone who could get closer to the guns, without arousing suspicion."

"Ian," Jack said, her voice tight, "he's _ten years old_."

"I'm aware of that, Jack."

He turned away and slid the Tupperware of blood-red pomegranate seeds into the refrigerator. Jack lowered her eyes to the picnic basket and grabbed the chicken salad sandwiches. She couldn't quite look at Ian the same way.

"I'm not sure these are still good," she said, forcing her voice to sound normal. "We might just want to throw them away."

"Whatever you want," Ian said, offering her a half-smile.

Jack couldn't bring herself to smile back. She closed the fridge, dropped the sandwiches into the trash bin, and disappeared upstairs.

Left alone in the kitchen, Ian looked at his own reflection in the glass panel above the stove, and he wondered at himself. He wondered if this approach was the best one, wondered how long it would take Jack to forgive him, wondered how much it would upset her that he could never bring up the "L" word again.

And, underneath it all, he felt a small flicker of satisfaction.

Alex had done well.

**YAY! You made it to the end!!!!! (wild applause) I know I've said the same thing before, but seriously...this is the longest chapter I've ever written. o.o I apologize for the length, but at least that plot is wrapped up now! **

**PLEASE let me know what you thought! Suggestions? Comments? Reviewers, help yourselves to Christmas cookies! Ginger snaps and chocolate chip cookies and those yummy peanut butter ones with the Hershey's kiss stuck in the middle..... :)**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: Erroneously, jesusfreak100percent, St. Danger, armanifan101, Turn-On-The-Stars, JaBoyYa, The Feral Candy Cane, Sharedsun, 1010'jin, skabs, Izzy-I.R.T., Sacred3, Rid3r Chick, Lilly Romanov, EwanLuvr4Ever, Chaos Dragon, kkkkkkkkk (lol), kuyoki1789, Alo Amicus, shorteyy jayylee, Sylaxas, and Jordy rox ur sox. Your comments were awesome--and I'm totally not kidding when I say that reviews help me write faster! :D**


	13. Violets Are Blue

**Hi :) **

**So....since I just left off with a few pretty action-packed chapters, I thought I'd slow things down a little. But there's some fun stuff in this chapter, and (WARNING! haha) a few sexual innuendoes! :P Enjoy!**

"_Life and love are life and love, a bunch of violets is a bunch of violets, and to drag in the idea of a point is to ruin everything. Live and let live, love and let love, flower and fade, and follow the natural curve, which flows on, pointless."_

_~D.H. Lawrence_

Jack sliced the lemon down the middle, letting the halves fall open onto the cutting board. The sun was beating down on her bare shoulders, shining off her glossy red hair; she brushed back a stray strand and held half of the lemon over a glass pitcher.

"One cup of sugar," Alex reported, setting the cup on the frosted-glass table.

"Perfect," Jack said, forcing a smile. "Ian's still not back?"

"No. He must've gone for a run before we woke up."

Biting the inside of her cheek, Jack squeezed the rest of the lemon juice into the pitcher. She and Alex were standing out on a seventh-floor hotel balcony, overlooking the white-sand beach of the Bimini Islands—it required all of Jack's willpower to focus on the lemonade, rather than scanning the beach for a flash of fair hair, or a familiar face.

"Snap out of it," she whispered sternly.

"What?"

Jack's hand slipped—the glass of lemonade slipped from her hand, shattered into a puddle of sugar, lemon slices, and shards of glass.

"It's okay," Alex said quickly, before Jack could even begin apologizing.

"God, I'm sorry—be careful, don't cut yourself—"

"Jack, it's okay. Don't worry."

Flustered, she scanned the balcony and the attached hotel room for a mop, a broom, a rubbish bin—and realized, quite suddenly, that she was crying.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, swiping at the tears on her cheeks.

Without a word, Alex hugged her tightly. He didn't know what was wrong—although he'd guessed that it had something to do with Ian. He just wanted Jack to feel better.

"Aren't I supposed to be the one taking care of you?" Jack whispered, almost laughing.

Alex's brown eyes were serious. "I think it works both ways."

Jack took a deep breath.

"Thanks, Alex." Her voice was firm. "Let's head down to the beach, as soon as I get this mess cleaned up."

Alex nodded and disappeared into the hotel room, rifling through Jack's travel bag for swimsuits and sunscreen. Out on the balcony, her shoulders burning in the sun, Jack knelt carefully beside the broken glass and picked up the pieces, one at a time.

ARARAR

"You've got your money," Ian said. "I don't suppose you'd just let me off at my hotel?"

The muscular, dark-skinned man smiled broadly at him. He was the kitschiest henchman Ian had seen in a long time. A walking cliché.

"You're a funny man, Mr. Meyer—if that is your real name."

"It's not," Ian said. His American accent was flawless. "This is a dangerous business—I'm sure you understand."

"Completely," the man sneered.

Another henchman, tall and lanky, stalled the engine. The speedboat bobbed gently in the waves; azure water spread to the horizon in all directions. Ten minutes ago, the boat had passed the shipwreck of the Sapona, a popular site for shallow wreck diving—Ian was planning to take Jack and Alex diving there later in the afternoon. Assuming he survived the morning.

The first man had a pistol on Ian. "Don't try anything."

Ian looked at the dead man on the floor of the boat. "I thought we were just driving out here to dump the body."

"We're going to dump two bodies," the man corrected, tossing a pair of handcuffs to Ian. "Attach one side to your ankle."

Making a show of reluctance, Ian leaned over and snapped one side of the cuffs around his ankle, the steel tight and cold.

"Attach the other side to the stiff," the gunman continued, nudging the bloodstained corpse on the boat floor.

"Can't we talk about—"

"_Now._"

Ian obeyed. A simple job, Tulip Jones had promised. A basic errand—except that the previous agent had mucked things up and gotten himself killed. Except that MI6 couldn't afford another mistake with this particular drug cartel. A walk in the park, she'd said.

Ian was now chained to a dead body, staring down the barrel of a gun. He wondered what sort of parks Tulip was accustomed to.

The lanky henchman stepped forward with a roll of duct tape; he yanked Ian's hands behind his back and taped his wrists together.

"Listen," Ian said, making his voice sharp and slightly desperate. "If you let me live, I'll wire your boss the agreed sum, in exchange for a few security concessions. But if you kill me, your boss will be extradited. The CIA will catch him—"

A fist came out of nowhere. Ian dodged, mentally congratulating himself on avoiding a bruise that would've made Jack's eyes narrow with suspicion. The second strike slammed into Ian's stomach; a third forced him to his knees.

"CIA bastard," the lanky man spat.

"We'll catch your boss," Ian insisted, breathless, "when he tries to make the shipment on Friday."

The two men exchanged glances, one perplexed, the other blank-faced. Then, at the same moment, they threw back their heads and laughed.

"I fail to see the humor," Ian said coolly.

The man with the gun stepped closer, his eyes glinting. "First, even if we let you live, you don't have enough pull at the CIA to help us. Secondly, we don't give a shit if the boss gets extradited, as long as we don't go down with him. And third—" The man's face split into an unbearably smug grin. "The shipment goes out tomorrow, not Friday."

_Bingo._

"But—" Ian made his voice flustered. "But the CIA have your operations on Bimini under surveillance."

"Unfortunately for the CIA, we're not shipping from Bimini."

"Where, then?" Ian demanded.

"Let me put it this way," the henchman said, shrugging. "Your agency would do better to keep an eye on West Grand Bahama. Too bad you won't live to tell them."

The other henchman grinned; Ian resisted an urge to do the same. Then the muscular man stepped forward, swinging the gun in an attempt to knock Ian unconscious—Ian stumbled backward, weighted down by the corpse, and both henchmen advanced upon him.

Ian barely had time to suck in a deep breath. Then the henchmen were laughing, and the water was rushing past, and Ian was sinking like a stone in a sea of blue.

ARARAR

"Roses are red," Jack muttered, staring out into the waves. "Violets are blue—"

She couldn't think of anything else that rhymed. She dipped her paintbrush in white and added wave crests, thick and textured, to her watercolor painting. Alex was standing a few meters down the beach, waist-deep in the light-blue water, looking at something near his feet.

"It's a jellyfish!" he called, glancing back at Jack.

She shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand. "Don't touch it, Alex!"

"Really?" He grinned back at her. "I was just about to jump on top of it."

"Yeah, yeah," Jack grumbled, but not without a slight smile.

She finished with the waves, and then dipped her paintbrush in yellow. The mid-morning sun was beautiful and bright, casting a radiant sash of light across the tropical water. But Jack couldn't enjoy it. She kept thinking back to the day before—no longer with the initial hurt or anger, but with faint curiosity.

"Why won't you just tell me the truth?" Jack muttered, streaking her canvas with yellow.

No one could do justice to the real sunrise, but Jack was stubborn enough to try.

ARARAR

"_Lemon shark," Jack read, flipping to the next glossy page. "They're very common around BImini. They have long, knife-like teeth." _

_Alex glanced up from across the hotel room, where he was digging through Jack's travel bag for bottled water. "They're cute."_

"_Cute?" Jack said incredulously. "Did you miss the part about the knife-like teeth?" She glanced down at the marine life booklet and shuddered. "Oh God. They've been known to attack people."_

"_More people die from bee stings than shark attacks," Alex reported._

_Jack snorted. "Ian told you that?"_

_The blonde boy shrugged. "Yeah."_

"_Well, one thing I learned from law school is that statistics are overrated. I'm sure you'd have a high chance of getting killed by bees if you ran around stomping on beehives. If you swim in shark-infested waters, on the other hand—" She caught the bottle of water that Alex tossed to her. _

"_Ian's not taking us diving until tomorrow," Alex reminded her, flopping down on the queen-sized bed that he and Ian were sharing. "And we've had scuba practice in the pool. If you're scared—"_

"_I'll be with you the whole time," Ian said, coming out of the bathroom._

_He'd changed into a white button-up shirt, a black jacket, and plain khaki pants. Jack stared at him._

"_Are you wearing a necklace?"_

"_I plead the fifth," Ian said, tucking the silver chain under his collar._

"_Didn't you say you were heading to a business meeting?" _

"_I am," Ian agreed, grabbing his briefcase from the top of the dresser. "In fact, I'm running late. Don't wait up for me—I probably won't be back until after midnight."_

"_I figured," Jack said, offering a small smile. "When you invited us along on your business trip, we knew it'd involve a lot of—you know. Business."_

_Ian hesitated for a split second. Then he was gone, the door shutting behind him, and Jack was chewing on her bottom lip._

"_He's not dressed for a business meeting," she muttered._

_Alex glanced at her. "We're in the Bahamas. Maybe business is more casual here."_

_Jack pushed herself up and stared out the panoramic glass window, which allowed an angled view of the hotel's front drive and the oasis pool. Jack stepped forward, her eyes raking the concrete seven stories below. Tourists lounged by the pool, strolled along the deck. Jack would never be able to pick Ian out of the crowd. Not from this height._

"_Alex," she said, tearing her eyes away from the glass, "I'm going to go down the hall and get some ice, okay?"_

_The ten-year-old boy smirked. "Sure, Jack."_

_He knew exactly where Jack was going. She shrugged helplessly._

"_I'll be back in ten minutes."_

_Ignoring a throb of apprehension, she grabbed a pair of sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, tucked her room key into her pocket, and hurried to catch the elevator. _

ARARAR

Chained to the corpse, sinking fast, Ian squinted up to the surface. The sun sliced through the water, and a trail of white bubbles indicated that the speedboat had already started its motor and sped away.

_Shipping tomorrow from West Grand Bahama, _Ian reminded himself.

He'd already worked his hands free of the duct tape; he unhooked his chain necklace and twisted around so that he could reach the cuff at his ankle. The metal cut into his skin; he worked quickly and methodically, rubbing the chain back and forth across the metal cuff. His lungs were starting to burn—the surface was twenty feet above him—a few more seconds—

And then the handcuff broke, and the dead body plummeted alone to the ocean floor, and Ian kicked upward. Within seconds, his head broke the surface—he drank in the air, greedily. Drowning was not a death he particularly fancied.

The white line of the speedboat was fading into the horizon. Treading water, Ian checked his watch. He'd promised to meet Jack and Alex on the beach precisely five minutes ago. Of course, he'd been planning to be back at the hotel before sunrise.

He needed to start swimming, but for a long moment, he hesitated. The sun was beautiful. Yellow, bright, burning like a candle.

_Tomorrow._

_West Grand Bahama._

He stroked hard, wondering if, after what she'd seen, Jack would still be happy to see him.

ARARAR

_Waiting patiently, shaded beneath the thatched roof of an outdoor bar, Ian felt a soft touch on his shoulder._

"_You must be my mark," she said._

_He turned and found himself gazing into a pair of deep brown eyes. A woman. Tall, slim, with bronzed legs and delicate curves. She wore a denim miniskirt and a sequined black top, skin-tight._

"_Sorry I'm late," she said, sliding her hand gently along his bicep. "Are you carrying?"_

"_We agreed not to."_

_The woman slid her hands down his back. "I have a knife. I won't tell you where."_

"_No gun?" Ian breathed, running his hands along her curves, over her hips._

_He felt the woman's body tense slightly. "The red-haired girl across the street. She's watching—"_

_Ian interrupted with a kiss, deep and shameless. They both used the moment to search for weapons, her hands sliding inside his jacket and down past his waistband, his body pressing hard against hers. Then she pulled away._

"_You were telling the truth," she said, frowning. "No gun, no weapons, no bugs. How—honorable—of you."_

_She meant foolish. Ian glanced, for a split second, into the reflection on a tinted car window. Jack was across the street, looking ridiculous, Ian thought, in a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. _

_The dark-haired woman's eyes flicked in Jack's direction again. "Friend of yours?' _

"_No."_

"_Then you won't mind if we kill her."_

_Ian felt a familiar jolt of fear; he kept his face passive and his voice calm. "I spent the night with her once. She's no threat, but do whatever you have to."_

_The woman's lip curled. "Well, aren't you a cold-blooded Casanova."_

_She led Ian to the car, a sedan with black-tinted windows. As they slid into the backseat, the woman turned, waved at Jack, and began kissing playfully down Ian's neck._

_The door closed._

_The car drove away._

_And Jack stood in silence. She had nothing to say._

ARARAR

"What's that supposed to be?" Ian said curiously. "An igloo?"

Jack glanced up at him. She'd been working on her sand sculpture for a good fifteen minutes. "It's a turtle," she said. There was a time when Ian's words would've made her flush, a time when his sudden reappearance would've startled her. She smoothed the turtle's shell.

"Of course." Ian grinned. "How'd I miss that?"

He moved her bright blue bag aside and sat down next to her. Jack noticed that he'd changed clothes since last night—he was barefoot, dressed in a black short-sleeved shirt and jeans. His hair looked tousled and slightly wet.

"How was your night?" Jack asked.

"It was fine," Ian said, fixing the turtle's lopsided head.

"Just fine?"

He shrugged. "A little dull, to be honest."

He sounded so calm, so honest. Jack wanted to punch him, and in fact, she'd picked up a few decent moves from Alex's karate lessons. Either he knew that she'd been watching him, and was waiting to see how she'd react—hoping, perhaps, that she wouldn't bring it up—or he had no idea that he'd been caught in a lie.

But Jack refused to play this game. She stood up, abandoning her lopsided, three-legged turtle, and squinted out at the shimmering water. Alex was holding the shell to his hear, listening for the whisper of the ocean.

"ALEX!" she screamed.

When Alex saw Ian, his face broke into a grin. He splashed up the beach, his blonde hair wet and matted, his legs caked with sand. Jack returned her gaze to the three-legged turtle. Perhaps she would name him Tripod.

"Ian!" Alex dropped the conch shell in the sand. "Have you ever seen a purple jellyfish?"

"I have," Ian said, with genuine enthusiasm, "but it wouldn't hurt to see another one. You didn't touch it, I hope?"

"Of course not," Alex said, rolling his eyes. "I'm glad you and Jack have so much faith in me." He sat down next to his uncle. "There was a dolphin out there, too—Jack and I swam with it."

Ian raised an eyebrow. "Jack didn't mention that."

"She thought it was a shark at first," Alex said, smirking.

Normally, Jack would've laughed along with them—she managed a weak chuckle. Ian glanced at her, frowning slightly.

"Put the conch back," he said finally, returning his attention to Alex. "I've rented a dive boat and scuba equipment for the day—I was thinking we could pack a picnic lunch and make a day of it."

Alex's eyes lit up. "Where?"

"I have a place in mind," Ian said, grinning at his nephew's excitement.

Alex grabbed the conch, vaulted over Jack's turtle, and hurried to return the pink-tinted mollusk to the ocean. Ian waited until Alex was just out-of-earshot.

"Jack," he said quietly, "we could both save a lot of time if you'd just tell me what I did wrong."

She brushed the sand off her feet. "Nothing."

Ian squinted up into the sun, studying her face.

"You're a better liar than you used to be," he said finally.

"Makes sense," Jack said brightly, sliding on her sandals. "I've had a damn good teacher."

ARARAR

_On the other end of the phone line, Mrs. Jones sighed. "Ian, straightforward or not, this assignment is serious. If you bring guests along—"_

"_I won't be distracted," Ian said firmly. _

"_That's not the only issue," Mrs. Jones said flatly. "If you're detained by the cartel, your nephew and your housekeeper will ask questions. They'll call the local authorities and draw a dangerous amount of attention to your presence—or lack thereof."_

_Ian almost laughed. "Tulip, they've seen me run off to Singapore like it's a last-minute grocery trip. At most, Jack will ask some pointed questions. Maybe ignore me for a few days."_

"_You'll put the job first?"_

"_Frankly, I'm astounded that you have to ask." _

_Mrs. Jones sighed again. "One more thing. We've established that Starbright is a—paranoid—sort of woman."_

"_Can it really be called paranoia, considering the circumstances?" Ian said, dangerously polite._

"_She's very interested in what you do for a living," Mrs. Jones pressed._

"_Yes," Ian agreed._

"_She's also rather intelligent."_

"_That's correct."_

_There was a long pause._

"_Ian, are you sure this is the best idea?"_

"_I know what I'm doing," he said. "Thanks, Tulip, for your concern."_

_He hung up the phone, returned to the kitchen table, and took a bite of his omelet, wondering if this was really the best idea._

ARARAR

Jack drifted along the side of the shipwreck, floating, weightless, surrounded by the most intense blue she'd ever seen. Her own breathing, which at first made her feel like an underwater Darth Vader, had faded into the soundtrack of the ocean. The bubbles rushing past her mask sounded like glass beads clinking against each other.

Ian was farther back, watching Alex and Jack's progress, and Alex was swimming deeper, close to the ocean floor. Schools of grayish-blue fish swam lazily along with him, while longer fish with narrow black stripes flitted in and out of the coral. They looked like travelers in a tropical blue galaxy—Ian had once called diving the "poor man's NASA," and now Jack understood why.

_This definitely beats law school, _she thought, self-mocking.

The wreck of the Sapona loomed ahead. Jack kicked her fins and moved carefully through the open ribs of the ship, ignoring the fact that Ian seemed to be following her.

Inside the old concrete skeleton of the shipwreck, there was life everywhere—colorful fish, and heavy coral growth, and a crab making its way along the floor. _Hello, Sebastian, _Jack thought giddily. She stroked further into the cabin, and despite the regulator in her mouth, she almost laughed. There was a bumpy white fish grinning at her, flapping its fins happily.

_Porcupinefish, _she thought, remembering the book of marine life that she and Alex had flipped through in the hotel room.

She swam a little closer. Poked at it. The creature began to twitch—out of nowhere, Ian grabbed Jack's arm and pulled her backward, and a moment later the little fish had inflated into a spiky, spine-covered ball.

Jack glanced at Ian. He looked exasperated.

_I told you not to touch the fish, Jack._

She remembered, vaguely, that some porcupinefish were poisonous. The toxin was a thousand times worse than cyanide. She glanced at the puffed-up fish again, and then at Ian. He was still holding her arm; they stared at each other for a long moment, defiant green eyes and questioning blue ones.

Luckily, the ocean eliminated the need to respond. Ian kicked toward the surface, and Jack swam deeper. It was nice being underwater: Ian couldn't lie if he couldn't speak.

ARARAR

"_Jack," Alex said, looking up in surprise. "Are you okay?"_

_Jack had just returned to the hotel room. She dropped her hat and sunglasses onto the bed. Paced the room and pulled open the curtains, just for the sake of doing something._

"_What happened?" Alex said, more sharply._

"_I—I'm just nervous. About the lemon sharks."_

"_Where's the ice?"_

_She laughed—not happy, not like she wanted him to laugh along with her. "We both know I wasn't going to get ice."_

_Alex nodded slowly. 'Okay. Where's Ian?"_

"_Business meeting. Just like he said."_

_She disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door behind her, so Alex couldn't read the truth in her eyes._

ARARAR

Jack had found a small metal ball, entwined in the coral, caught between a knotty green plant and a swaying purple frond. An artillery shell. She dropped it in onto the seat cushion of the speedboat, right next to the old whiskey bottle that Alex had found in the empty hull.

"Lunch," Ian suggested, opening a white cooler.

Jack smiled. "Well, we've already got century-old whiskey—what more do we need?"

"Fresh mangos," Alex said, grabbing one from the cooler.

"And crab canapes," Ian added, removing the carefully wrapped platter. "Maybe some conch fritters."

"Crab canapes!" Jack stared at him, aghast. "Haven't you seen The Little Mermaid?"

Ian glanced at Alex, who was grinning. "No, Jack. I can't say that I have."

"The scene when Sebastian's running around the kitchen, almost getting chopped up and sliced and diced by the evil French chef—"

Ian's lip twitched. "I haven't seen it," he repeated. "Just try something."

Jack frowned at the plate of fritters—Ian grabbed one and reached over to feed it to her. She was so surprised that she obeyed. Chewed. Swallowed.

"Sebastian's delicious," she admitted.

"To Sebastian," Ian said solemnly, raising an imaginary glass.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, peeling their mangos and biting into the sweet, juicy fruit, feeling the gentle rock of the waves. Jack, Ian, and Alex had stripped down to swimsuits, and the more Jack ordered herself not to stare, the more her eyes were drawn to Ian—the smooth skin, the toned muscles. He had a number of scars—long, fading marks along his back, and a white scratch mark on his chest, and a small circle, alarmingly close to his heart. She'd seen it once before. There was a cut around his ankle—it looked recent. Still bleeding.

She wondered if the dark-haired woman had kissed his scars, or ignored them—wondered why the tension was so thick, why his lies were so perfect—

_To hell with it._

"This is delicious," Jack announced; Alex nodded his agreement. "Did you have crab fritters last night, at your business meeting?"

Ian sliced into another mango. "No, Jack."

"Or maybe your friend had some," Jack mused, leaning back in her seat. "Did you feed your crab fritters to her, too?"

Ian raised an eyebrow at her; she smiled, casual and innocent.

"Last night," he said carefully, "I had a meeting that was really very dull, and not worth talking about right now."

"Oh, come on." If not for the malicious sparkle in Jack's green eyes, Ian might've thought she was just curious. "Tell me what it was like."

"You'd just be bored, Jack."

She smirked. "If that's true, you weren't doing it right."

"The procedure for meetings like this is very—standard."

"Don't worry, Ian. You know how I love to hear all the juicy details about—" The words rolled off Jack's tongue like candy. "—foreign affairs."

At the other end of the boat, Alex looked exasperated. "I'm not five."

Jack flushed, realizing suddenly why Ian looked so exasperated; Alex was just old enough to get a sense of what she was talking about.

"Um—I could try for more oblique euphemisms," she suggested. "Something about whether you came into the meeting through the back door."

"I don't think you could get more oblique than that," Ian muttered.

"Okay." Alex dropped a half-eaten conch fritter onto his plate. "I'm going to swim now." The blonde boy stepped up onto the edge of the speedboat. Paused. "If we weren't already checked in at this hotel, I'd tell you guys to get a room."

Alex dove into the blue water; Jack and Ian watched for a moment as the ten-year-old boy stroked out toward the wreck.

"I underestimate him, sometimes," Jack admitted.

"No, you don't." Ian rubbed his forehead. "You just thought It'd be more fun to talk in subtext."

Jack sighed. Straightened the strings of her yellow bikini. She suddenly felt dreadfully exposed. "Ian, listen—"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

She blinked. "For what?"

He picked up the artillery shell, pressing it into his palm. "I think there's more than one correct answer to that question."

"How about 'D'?" Jack suggested.

He smiled wryly. "All of the above?"

Alex had reached the wreck; he was climbing, slowly, searching for footholds. Jack and Ian watched him for a long moment, working his way up, rock-climbing on concrete and old metal. Jack tried to remember if he'd gotten his tetanus shot. Decided that he had.

"I wish you wouldn't lie to me," she said quietly.

A muscle jumped in Ian's jaw. "I wish I didn't have to."

Ordinarily, Jack might not have known what to say; this time, she laughed. "Ian, you _don't_ have to. You ran off to have some fun with a woman. Maybe somebody you met at a bar. Hopefully not a hooker. But it's not something you have to hide from me."

Ian raised his eyebrows. "A hooker?"

"Well, I don't know—"

"That's really what you think of me, Jack?"

"No. I don't know." Her eyes flickered with frustration. "Ian, just be serious for a second. You lied to me, because you thought I'd overreact. You thought I'd be hurt." She offered a small smile. "Luckily, it didn't take me four years to figure out that I'm not the only woman you've ever seen."

"I still shouldn't have—"

"Slept with a smoking hot woman?" Jack suggested. "Acted like a human being, for once?"

Ian shrugged. Jack met his gaze. Funny, that a few years ago she hadn't been able to detect a shred of feeling in those cool blue eyes. She could see, now, that he was surprised, relieved, confused. He'd been expecting her to be angry, or sarcastic—the conversation from the bank vault, and the stubborn "L" word, hung between them.

"Are you okay?" Ian said quietly.

"Fine."

"Jack, don't—"

"I said I'm _fine_." She stood up; the boat rocked slightly. She remembered something he'd said, in the first two weeks she'd known him—_forget about tact. We don't need it here. _

"Ian," she said, her eyes glinting defiantly, "I don't care who you're having sex with. You think it hurts my feelings? You think it surprises me?"

Ian didn't respond, which Jack appreciated.

"What hurts," she continued, slightly softer, "is that you're my best friend, and you won't tell me a damn thing."

There was a long silence; Ian knew there was nothing he could say to make this better, and he didn't insult her by trying. At the wreckage, Alex had reached the top—he pulled himself over the side, stood on the crumbling edge of the shipwreck, and stared down at the water. Jack and Ian watched, involuntarily holding their breaths. He was on the edge of something. The world was frozen.

"Shouldn't you say something?" Jack hissed.

Ian glanced at her. "Like what? Don't take risks? Don't have fun?"

"I just think—"

Alex took a running step and jumped.

"Ohmygod." Jack clutched Ian's arm; they watched as Alex dropped thirty feet and plunged into the water. There was a splash, a white plume of bubbles, and a moment later Alex's head broke the surface. Even from a distance away, Jack could see him grinning.

"We have to do that," Jack whispered, eyes wide.

"You're not scared?" Ian teased, gently.

She shrugged. "We'll jump together. If I start drowning, I fully expect you to save me."

A ghost of a smile crossed Ian's face. "What, you trust me now?"

Jack tore her eyes away from Alex. She felt it was important to look Ian in the eye—she wanted to make sure he knew that she was telling the truth. Perhaps he could learn by example.

"You and Alex are my best friends," she said. "I'll always trust you."

Ian nodded, but Jack wasn't finished.

"I'll always trust you. But I don't think I'll ever be able to believe you."

His blue eyes turned unreadable again, like a door closing. Jack turned away from him and jumped off the edge—streams of bubbles rushed past, and blue was everywhere, and she thanked God for underwater, where there was no need to talk.

**Thanks for reading!**

**I want to apologize for being gone so long and for not responding to the reviews on the previous chapter. I was planning to, I promise, but I had to take a fanfiction hiatus. My uncle passed away 2 weeks ago, due to complications from AIDS. His health deteriorated very drastically over the past month...it's been really hard on my family. I mentioned this to a few of you who sent me PM's asking where the heck I was, and I REALLY appreciate your prayers. Thank you.**

**Now that I've sufficiently depressed us all....haha. As always, review!!! Insomnia cookies for everyone! :)**


	14. Parental Advisory

**Yay, next chapter!**

**Thank you so much for your prayers and condolences. Just wanted to let you know that, as hard as it's been (especially on my dad), we're all doing okay, considering what happened. **

**I really wanted to put this chapter up tonight, so it's being uploaded in a rush--I apologize in advance for typos! Also, I think some of you guys are going to really enjoy this one. :P Enjoy!**

Jack and Ian sat side-by-side on the front steps, drinking iced lemonade with coconut rum, pretending for a few minutes that it was spring and not early February. Alex was kicking around a football on the front lawn.

"It's good, right?" Jack said hopefully, watching Ian take a sip. "I loved spiked lemonade in college. Simple and sweet."

"Definitely sweet," Ian agreed, his lip twitching.

Five minutes ago, he and Alex had been playing sudden death, weaving around each other and kicking the ball hard in attempts to score, when Jack came outside with her tray of drinks. Mixed drinks were her latest craze—before that, she'd cycled through Japanese cuisine and flaming desserts and Spanish dishes like mole and paella. She'd even temporarily expanded her food-prep window to fifteen minutes, instead of ten.

"Tomorrow," she said lazily, stirring her drink, "I'm thinking of whipping up some magic juice."

Ian stared at her for a long moment.

"What?" Jack said defensively.

"From what I remember, magic juice is what you get when you mix together a little bit of everything in your parents' liquor cabinet." A ghost of a smile crossed Ian's face. "I suppose that's not exactly what you meant."

Jack flushed and squinted out at the yard, where Alex was bouncing the football like a hackey sack. "My magic juice is a mix of strawberries, oranges, cucumbers, lemonade concentrate, and a few shots of gin."

"Sounds like college taught you a great deal," Ian said dryly.

Jack glowered at him. "Jealous."

A familiar half-smile. "Of what?"

"Adventure," she said, shrugging. "Your past is boring."

"What makes you say that?"

Jack smirked. "Please, Ian. Classical music. Financial spreadsheets. A glass of wine with dinner. You're hardly an international man of mystery."

He smiled slightly, enjoying some private joke—Jack could've sworn she'd seen him wear the same expression before, but she couldn't place it. He'd just opened his mouth to reply when, from inside the house, the phone rang.

Jack winced. _Damn it._

The phone rang again.

"See you in two weeks," Jack said, making her voice light. "Show those foreign investors who's boss."

Ian raked a hand through his fair hair, set down his glass, and disappeared inside; he knew better than to apologize. From across the yard, Alex met Jack's eyes.

"What d'you think?"

Jack considered for a moment. "Burma."

Alex looked thoughtful. "I'm thinking Australia."

"You're on." Jack glanced through the front window, verifying that Ian was out of earshot. "My second pick is South Africa."

"He was just there a few months ago," Alex disagreed. "Iran."

"He's been there, too."

"He might go again."

The front door creaked, and Jack and Alex quickly fell silent—their game of betting on Ian's destinations would lose its novelty if he found out about it. Ian stepped out onto the front steps, and Jack looked expectantly at him.

"Going somewhere?"

He shook his head. "It's for you."

Jack and Alex exchanged startled glances—apparently, neither of them had won this round—and Jack hurried inside. The phone was waiting off the hook; she didn't recognize the number on the caller ID.

"Hello?" she said, bringing the phone to her ear.

"Surprise!"

Jack laughed—she should've known. "Hi, Mom."

"How's my baby doing?" The fifty-year-old woman's voice sounded cheerful, but strained.

"Good," Jack said. "Just hanging out at home."

The words fell out into the air before Jack could call them back—'home' resonated in a tense, quiet space. Then her mom forced a chuckle.

"Sounds like Ian's having a good day."

Jack felt a twinge of impatience. It was beautiful outside, and the crushed ice in her drink was melting. "Mom, how could you possibly know that?"

"Oh, just something in his voice."

"You've spoken to Ian maybe three times, for less than fifteen seconds."

"Well," her mom said brightly, "hopefully we'll fix that tonight."

Jack froze. Rewound time. Examined each of her mother's words like an image on a film reel.

"Sorry," she said carefully. "Tonight?"

"Well, hopefully sooner—I'm calling from the on-flight phone. It's a little expensive, but Dad wanted me to let you know that we're in the air, right on schedule. Can you grab us from the airport, or should we call a cab?"

Jack's head was spinning. "Back up, Mom. Airport? What airport?"

"All the information's in the email I sent you. We're so excited, sweetheart. We'll call you as soon as the flight gets in."

"Mom, what the—"

There was a hollow click, and the line went dead.

Jack stared numbly at the phone, at a loss for words.

ARARAR

_To: _

_Sweetie,_

_Dad has great news! He's racked up enough frequent flier miles to get us across the Atlantic, and what better way to use them to visit our baby? We'll finally be able to see everything you're always talking about! Can't wait to meet this boyfriend of yours—Dad promises not to grill him too much. Anyway, sounds like Ian's up to the challenge. _

_Our flight is scheduled for the first Sunday in February. We should arrive at Heathrow at 4:20pm, at terminal five. _

_Love you, sweetheart!_

_Mom_

ARARAR

Jack scrubbed the marble countertop, glaring at the wine stain. A thin purple ring. It wouldn't come clean, no matter how many kitchen soaps and lemon-scented cleaners she tried.

Behind her, the floorboards creaked.

"The whole house looks like a page out of a home décor magazine," Ian said.

Jack couldn't help but smile. "I thought the same thing when I first moved in." She dropped the dishrag and turned around. "Do you know any miracle cleaners that can get wine stains out of marble?"

"How about we don't worry about it?" Ian suggested.

Jack snatched the dishrag again. "Thanks, Ian. You know how much I love it when you patronize me."

Ian frowned, watching her scrub the counter. "What's wrong?"

Jack attempted a smile. "My parents are coming."

"This is a recent development?" Ian said.

Jack shrugged helplessly. "Apparently, I missed an email from my parents a few weeks ago. They'll be here soon."

"And what's the problem?"

"I'm just—I'm not ready to see them. I haven't even had time to take a shower today."

Jack could feel Ian reading her, deciphering the half-truth; she felt like a butterfly pinned under a magnifying glass. The clock ticked away the seconds until her parents knocked at the door. She wished Ian would say something.

"When's the last time you saw your parents, Jack?" he said finally.

"After nine-eleven," she said, remembering.

"How was it?"

"They bickered like babies the whole time."

Ian squeezed her shoulder, almost unconsciously. "Think of this as a diplomatic opportunity."

"Or cruel and unusual punishment."

The floorboards creaked again, and Alex appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"The apocalypse," Jack said, her voice hollow. "We're stocking up on canned food."

"What's going on?" Alex repeated, looking at Ian this time.

"Jack's parents are visiting," he said.

Alex's brown eyes widened. "When? This week?"

"This afternoon," Jack corrected flatly.

"It is the afternoon."

"I know."

They lapsed into a stunned silence, Alex wondering why Jack wasn't more excited, Ian searching for the truth in Jack's face, and Jack wondering what the hell she was going to do. Then she stood bravely, backed by a bottle of Windex and the gleaming marble countertops.

"My parents' ETA is four-twenty p.m.," she said. "That gives us about an hour before I have to go pick them up at the airport. Here's our battle plan."

Ian raised an eyebrow, and Alex fought a grin.

"Ian," Jack ordered briskly, "I need you to look through the cupboards and figure out what we have. Anything I might be able to throw together for dinner. Alex, your job is to put some fresh sheets on my bed, so that my parents can sleep there." She grabbed the washrag again. "I—I'm going to sweep and mop the kitchen, scrub out the shower and the bathroom tile, vacuum everything, clean out the gutters, throw all the junk on my bedroom floor into the closet, cook dinner, maybe throw together a dessert—and my dad would like it if I ran out and bought him some beer—"

"Jack." Ian gently pried the rag from her hand. "'No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.'"

She rolled her eyes. "What is that, some Tibetan proverb? Some British stratagem from the Battle of the Somme?"

"It's Colin Powell."

Jack blinked. "Oh."

"Here's the anti-plan," Ian continued calmly. "We forget about cleaning. We order pizza. And you run upstairs and take a nice, hot shower."

"Sounds a little better," Alex said, offering Jack a tentative smile.

She sighed, raking both hands through her long red hair. "My parents need somewhere to sleep."

"My room's already clean," Alex volunteered.

"But your bed's too small."

"Mine isn't," Ian said firmly. "I'll change the sheets."

Jack stared at him for a long moment, wondering how much she should tell him. There was nothing simpler than the truth—but nothing harder. A part of her was determined to get through this with all of her little secrets, not to mention her dignity, intact.

For the first time, she found herself wishing that Ian were away on business.

ARARAR

When Jack reached terminal five, her parents were already waiting, uncomfortable in plastic airport chairs, their luggage tucked under the seats. Their silence was cold, bodies angled away from each other, eyes focused in opposite directions. Jack tried not to imagine how painful it must've been for them to sit side-by-side on an eight-hour flight.

Her parents saw her before she could say anything.

"Jack!"

Sharon Starbright jumped up, her face breaking into a huge smile, and for a split second Jack forgot her anxiety as her mom wrapped her in a tight hug.

"Sweetie, you look wonderful!" Her mom's voice was muffled. "When did your hair get so long?"

Jack tried to smile. "It's been a while."

"Where's Ian and Alex?"

"They're back at the house." Jack was careful not to say 'home.'

Her father was grinning. "Hey, babe."

"Hi, Dad."

They walked out to the car, dragging luggage and laughing about nothing in particular. Jack caught a glimpse of their reflection on a tinted car windshield. Her mom, pretty and petite, with chin-length red hair and a kind smile—her dad, tall and stocky, with gray hair, glasses, and a painfully bright Hawaiian shirt—and Jack. Tangled red hair, boyish face, bright green eyes. Twenty-five and single. But her parents didn't need to know that.

She hit the unlock button, and the Jag beeped twice.

"That's your car?" her dad asked, his gray eyes widening.

"Yep." She opened the door. "I mean, technically it's Ian's."

Her dad whistled, low and admiring. "What does he do at that bank?"

"I wish I knew," Jack said honestly, starting the engine.

The drive home flew by much faster than Jack had hoped—she'd been praying for an opportunity to salvage the situation. For a moment, she considered pretending that she'd broken up with Ian, but then her parents would wonder why Jack was still living there, and they might ask Ian about it. Might even blame him. Lies would only generate more lies.

She pulled into the driveway. Took a deep breath.

_Just say it._

"Guys, listen—"

"Oh, Jackie," her mom gasped, "is this your house?"

She bit her lip. "Mom, please—"

"You're twenty-five, and you're living better than we are at fifty!"

Jack's dad chuckled and, to Jack's surprise, walked around the Jag and held the door open for his wife. An impersonal courtesy, but surprising, nonetheless.

"Sharon, give the girl a break," he said.

Her mom laughed at the big chalk rectangles on the driveway. "You've been playing four square?"

"That's our Jack," her dad said fondly. "A five-year-old at heart."

Jack suppressed a groan and hurried after her parents, who had already reached the front steps. She couldn't let them go inside, not yet, not until she told them—

The front door swung open.

"Oh," Sharon said, blinking.

Jack tried to imagine how Ian might've looked if she didn't see him every day. Bright white shirt, Omega watch, blue eyes unnerving in their quiet confidence. He was cool. Intimidating. Jack bit back a smile. Despite the situation, she was looking forward to seeing Ian and her bullheaded attorney father go head-to-head.

"You must be Jack's parents," Ian said, his eyes flicking from Sharon's flaming red hair to Hank's round face and unintentionally hard eyes.

"Ian," Sharon gushed, clasping his hand. "Jack's told us so much about you. Not enough, obviously—she claims you're a private man, a little too secretive. But if anyone can break through that armor, Jack can."

Ian glanced at Jack, half-smiling. "Is that so?"

Sharon flushed, startlingly reminiscent of her daughter. "I'm just glad to be here. Hopefully this isn't too embarrassing, Ian, but I've been dying to meet you."

"Mom," Jack said flatly.

Ian's lip twitched slightly. "You two couldn't possibly be related."

Alex was waiting a few feet beyond the doorway. "It's nice to meet you," he said politely.

"Alex," Sharon said, wrapping the startled eleven-year-old in a hug. "You're so much bigger than the picture Jack showed me."

"People are usually bigger than pictures," Alex agreed, deadpan.

"Are we going out somewhere?" Hank said brusquely, dragging the suitcases over the threshold.

"I don't think so," Jack said, following the group inside. "We ordered pizza."

"Then why's Ian here dressed like he just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue?" Hank shot back.

Jack stared at him. "What?"

Hank looked smug—Jack had seen him wearing the same disapproval when she'd purchased a two hundred dollar prom dress. "I don't believe in spending more on clothes than you'd spend on a haircut," Hank snapped.

"I get expensive haircuts," Ian replied calmly.

Jack managed not to laugh. Alex was staring very intently at the ceiling.

"Where should we put our things?" Sharon asked brightly, setting down her travel bag.

"You're both welcome to sleep upstairs," Ian said, "in—"

"The guestroom," Jack blurted.

Ian raised an eyebrow at her.

"It's the third on the left," she continued, flushing slightly. "Black futon. White carpet."

They stood in silence for a few minutes; Alex grabbed the remote and flipped off BBC. Jack was suddenly aware of everything wrong with the living room—the stain on the corner of the glass coffee table, the red leather couch crooked to the wall, the dust and fingerprints on the flat-screen TV.

"How old are you, Alex?" Jack's dad asked, breaking the silence.

"Eleven."

"You like school?"

"Usually."

"I hear your uncle's got you in karate lessons. What belt are you?"

"Hank," Sharon hissed, elbowing him. "Save the interrogation."

"I'm just getting to know the boy, Hon," the man said, shrugging—but he obediently shut his mouth.

Jack couldn't believe what she was seeing. From what she remembered, her parents should've been sniping at each other, shooting glares like bullets, never missing.

"Is everything okay?" she hedged.

"Everything's wonderful, sweetie." Sharon smiled warmly as she and Hank sat opposite Jack and Ian on the red leather couch. "We want to hear about you. How'd you and Ian meet?"

Jack's face flushed darker than it had in weeks—she felt Ian glance sideways at her.

"It's not much of a story," she said, keeping her eyes trained on her shoelaces. "I answered Ian's job advert. Babysitting and light housework. Alex was only seven. We had our first conversation in French."

"She was wearing a beret," Alex explained, his eyes sparkling.

"We sat in the kitchen and had some tea," Jack continued. "Ian told me where I'd be sleeping."

"Ooh la la," her mom said, winking.

"A separate bedroom," Jack said, determined to keep her voice level. "He had to run off on a business trip, so I started work right away. And I've lived here ever since."

Sharon hadn't stopped smiling yet. Alex was frowning slightly—he could sense the subtext, but he didn't know what it meant. Sharon looked like she wanted to ask another question.

"I'm sorry," Ian interrupted smoothly, leaning forward. "Would either of you have a drink?"

"I'm pretty jet-lagged," Sharon confessed. "Coffee sounds good."

"A cold beer sounds better," Hank said, flashing his wife a lopsided grin.

"Of course." Ian stood up. "Jack, give me a hand?"

Keeping her eyes down, Jack followed him through the next room, to the kitchen. It wasn't until she'd scooped dark coffee grounds into the filter and Ian had filled the pot with water that he spoke, his voice cool and detached.

"As a matter of interest, are we engaged, or just dating?"

_Shit._

Jack met his gaze defiantly. "What're you talking about?"

"Jack," Ian said, with a touch of exasperation.

He knew. Of course he knew. Damn his intuition. She glanced over her shoulder, checking for her parents. Then she grabbed Ian's arm, tugged him into the pantry, and pulled the door shut. Only a sliver of his face was visible in the narrow chink of light.

"Okay," she hissed. "My mom might've gotten the idea that we're dating, and I might not have corrected her yet, and now she and my dad might think that we're in a serious relationship."

"That's a lot of might's," Ian said gravely.

"If you're angry at me, or if you think I'm insane, I understand." Jack searched for his eyes in the darkness. Her back was pressing against a jar of peanut butter. "But Ian—I'm asking you not to blow my cover on this. If Mom finds out I've been lying to her all along—if she figures out I paid my way through law school just to become a single babysitter—"

"What's being single got to do with it?" Ian said curiously.

Jack massaged her temples. "Mom's disappointed that I didn't find a husband in college. Because, of course, that's what college is for."

She couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of her voice. She and Ian stood in darkness for a long moment, eyes locked, listening to the faint voices in the living room. Hank seemed to be questioning Alex again, while Sharon made cheerful little comments. Jack rubbed her forehead.

"For the record," Ian said finally, "I'm not angry at you. Don't think I ever could be."

Jack sighed. "That's a relief."

"And as far as insanity," he added, "I've always known that you're slightly mad."

A smile spread across Jack's face. "Everybody knows that."

Ian opened the pantry door; the coffee was boiling.

"Wait." Jack caught his arm. "They'll only be here a few days. You'll play along?"

Ian hesitated. For a split second, his eyes flickered with something like concern, but just as quickly, it was gone.

"If that's what you want, Jack."

He poured five mugs of steaming hot coffee, and Jack took a deep, calming breath. Was this what she wanted? Yes—she wanted her parents to be happy. She wanted them to believe she'd found a fairy-tale ending. She wanted Ian to play his part, and she trusted him to play it well.

But deep down, she didn't want him to be playing.

ARARAR

"Good Lord," Hank began, bowing his head in prayer.

Ian and Alex exchanged quick glances; Jack bowed her own head, trying not to cringe.

"Bless these sinners as they eat their dinners," Hank intoned. "Amen."

"He thinks he's clever," Jack breathed in Ian's ear, reaching for the marinara dipping sauce.

They'd ordered two pizzas—green pepper and mushroom, for Jack's mom, and sausage and pepperoni for her dad. There was a comfortable silence as everyone poured water or pop or beer into tall glasses. Hank grabbed a slice of pizza with one hand; Sharon ate hers with a fork and knife.

"So," Hank said, his mouth half-full, "You run off on these business trips a lot?"

Ian nodded, taking a slice of green pepper and mushroom. "Occupational hazard of being overseas finance manager—you spend a great deal of time overseas."

"Ergo, Jack spends a great deal of time alone," Hank said flatly.

"Not alone," Alex corrected quietly.

"Of course not, Alex," Sharon said, patting his hand. "Hank didn't mean anything by it."

"I meant _something_ by it," Hank grunted, taking another bite.

Alex gave Sharon a curious look and drank his Coke so he wouldn't have to say anything; Jack wished her parents would just shut up and eat their food. Ian squeezed her shoulder, just like he'd done earlier, but this time he let his touch linger. All through dinner, she'd been noticing subtle differences. Ian's upper body was turned toward her, and he was leaning forward slightly. His eyes focused on her more than anyone else, sparkling, playful. Whenever her glass was empty, he refilled it.

_He's good, _she thought, almost bitter.

"You're an attorney, Hank?" Ian said politely.

Hank nodded, with a good-natured sort of disdain. "I work on cases that involve shipping, transportation, things like that. It pays the bills."

"Jack's going to be an environmental lawyer," Sharon added. "But I'm sure you already know that."

"Of course." Ian met Jack's eyes again. "She's going to save the world."

"After a couple years off," Jack reminded her parents, wondering if it would be okay to excuse herself to the bathroom and bang her head on the wall.

As dinner went on, and as she sipped her first beer of the night, Jack started to relax. Her mom beamed constantly, and her dad grilled the Riders with questions, and Ian managed to speak respectfully and make Hank feel slightly ridiculous at the same time. After the pizza was gone, Alex drank another Coke and excused himself to finish his homework, and Hank broke out the German lagers he'd packed in his suitcase.

"It's a special occasion," he said, passing them around.

It was a good thing Alex had left, Jack realized dimly, because she didn't want to set a bad example. Didn't want him to think that she needed beer to take the edge off. She didn't. Not really. But there was something seductively easy about it.

Feeling like she ought to contribute something, and also feeling like she'd enjoy some slightly stronger alcohol, she filled a few shot glasses with the rest of her coconut rum. From there, dinner with her parents took an unusual turn.

"It's true that we've got our differences," Sharon was saying, hiccupping slightly. "But we only fight because we care, don't we, Hon?"

Hank nodded vehemently, his eyes over-bright. "Absolutely, Dear. That's absolutely right."

"Don't get married until you've fought a few times," Sharon advised, looking seriously from Jack to Ian. "You don't know someone until you disagree with them."

"Then we're golden," Jack announced, laughing at Ian's wary expression. "Golden like the sun. Like this beer." She examined her third glass of lager, which seemed to be glowing in an almost-drunken haze. "I wonder if there's a poem in there somewhere."

"Think you've had enough?" Ian said under his breath.

Jack took another sip. "Please, Ian. In college, I was the queen of beer pong."

Hank laughed, full-bellied. "Babe, ignorance is bliss."

"Beer pong?" Sharon echoed, struggling to make sense of the words.

"To think I worried that you were too studious to have fun," Hank said, still grinning.

"Too studious to fall in love," Sharon added, smiling at Ian. "Obviously, we were wrong."

The night went on, a swirl of laughter and meaningless conversation, and then Hank was raising his glass and giving a toast to young love, to Juliet's dagger, to Penelope's loom. And to Jack and Ian.

"May they find happiness in each other," he declared, lifting his glass, "and in shiny silver Jaguars and BMWs."

Then everyone was drinking, and Sharon and Hank were clinking their forks loudly against their glasses, grinning broadly, and Jack was laughing, remembering vaguely that people at weddings usually end up kissing when that happens, and Ian was cupping her face in his hand.

Suddenly, all the noise fell away.

"Ian," she whispered.

For a split second, he hesitated. Jack touched his arm, almost subconsciously, expecting him to pull away.

Instead, he pulled her closer.

_He's playing along, _she reminded herself hazily. _Just playing—_

"Close your eyes," he said quietly.

She obeyed. And then he was kissing her, soft and tender, and she was kissing him back, melting into him, feeling his hand slide down her back and the warm pressure of his lips, struggling to comprehend that this was real, it was happening—

The glasses stopped clinking, and Ian pulled away.

It had lasted perhaps three seconds.

"Oh, come on," Hank said, smirking. "Just because your parents are sitting here doesn't mean you have to be afraid to use your damn tongue."

Under ordinary circumstances, Jack would've rolled her eyes at her father. This time, she didn't even hear him. She could still feel the warmth of his lips. She realized she was trembling slightly. Prayed that no one would notice.

"I think I'm going to bed," she said finally, standing up; she almost tripped, and Ian caught her arm gently.

"You okay?"

"A little tipsy," she admitted, avoiding his eyes.

"We hadn't noticed," her dad said dryly.

"It's almost midnight," Sharon added, checking her watch. "Shall we call it a night?"

"Night sounds good," Jack murmured.

"I'll make breakfast tomorrow," Sharon said, smiling warmly. "Goodnight, you two."

Jack walked very fast to the bathroom—she was _not drunk_, she insisted, just a _little _tipsy—and slammed the door. Locked it. Splashed cold water on her face.

She knew Ian had been playing a role, just like she'd asked him to. She knew that she'd probably cry herself to sleep tonight. But for the moment, she could still feel the heat of his lips on hers, and she couldn't keep the smile off her face.

ARARAR

Ian was spreading his blanket on the living room couch when Sharon walked in from washing the dishes, her hands still wet with soapsuds.

"Ian," she said, flashing him a knowing smile, "what're you doing down here?"

He stood up, his mind working fast. "I thought—"

"Don't worry," Sharon assured him. "I might be Irish-Catholic, but I'm not stuck in the nineteenth century."

Jack had just padded through the living room toward the stairs, nibbling a corner of burnt toast. "What's wrong, Mom?" she said drowsily.

"This is your home," Sharon said firmly, picking up Ian's pillow and tossing it to him. "You and Jack should feel free to sleep wherever you usually do." She winked at Ian. "And I'm assuming that's not the couch."

Jack and Ian stared at her for a long moment.

"Thanks, Mom," Jack said finally.

Sharon nodded briskly. "I'll help you bring your things upstairs, dear."

Five minutes later, Ian was saying goodnight to Sharon and closing Jack's bedroom door. The room was dark and untidy, and Jack and Ian were alone. There was a beat of silence.

"Your parents are a little too understanding," Ian said finally.

"They're just happy for us," she managed, shaking her head.

"They're wonderful people," Ian said, "but I understand why you chose London for law school."

He dropped his pillow on the floor and spread out the blanket. Jack's usual undershirt and pajama shorts suddenly felt as skimpy as lingerie. She sat up against her pillows, glancing down at him.

"If you're not comfortable—"

"The floor is fine," Ian said, very firmly.

"Okay." Jack lay down again. "Right."

Ian flicked off the overhead light and lay down. Jack could still see him in the peach-tinted light from her bedside lamp. She remembered, vaguely, that he usually slept without a shirt; she wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed that he'd opted otherwise tonight. For a few seconds, they lay in silence.

"Is that lamp broken?" Ian said quietly.

Jack propped herself up slightly. "What, the Korean one?"

"Yeah."

"I smashed it with my pillow when I was trying to turn off my alarm." She hesitated. "Three years ago."

"Ah." She couldn't see his face, but she knew he was grinning.

"I'm sorry," Jack added

"I never liked it anyway."

"That's what Alex said." She flipped off her bedside lamp. "Goodnight, Ian."

"Goodnight, Jack."

In the darkness, she could hear his steady breathing; it took her three hours to fall asleep.

ARARAR

"For bacon, eggs, and buttered toast—"

"—Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."

It was seven o' clock in the morning, with the sun just peeking through the red clouds. Jack poured maple syrup over her banana pancakes. As promised, Sharon had cooked breakfast: pancakes and strawberry sauce, bacon and scrambled eggs, sausage and cinnamon raisin toast. Jack had always loved her mom's breakfasts, but this morning, it tasted stale.

"Pass the butter," she said softly.

Ian handed her the crystal tray, and then tried a forkful of scrambled eggs.

"Sharon," he said sincerely, "this is fantastic."

"Mom likes to make me look bad," Jack said, attempting a smile.

Alex was looking from Jack to Ian, frowning slightly.

"Is everything okay?" he asked carefully.

"Fine, Alex."

He knew as well as Ian did that she was lying, but neither parent noticed anything strange. At the head of the table, Hank was eating fast, spooning forkful after forkful to his mouth.

"Hon," he said, through a mouthful of eggs, "I forgot just how heavenly your cooking is. You could open a restaurant."

"Thank you, Dear," Sharon said, trying not to sound too pleased. "There's extra pancakes, if you'd like—"

"Lay 'em on me."

Sharon giggled like a schoolgirl and scraped another fluffy pancake into her husband's plate. Jack felt as though she'd been thrown into the Twilight Zone and her mom was about to start aging backward.

Halfway through breakfast, as Jack was drinking her second cup of coffee, the phone rang.

Jack froze. Alex lowered his eyes to his plate. And Ian's eyes flickered, just slightly.

"Forgive me," he said, folding his napkin.

He disappeared into the next room. Hank looked startled.

"It's eight in the morning," he said. "How pressing can it be?"

Jack shrugged; Alex moved his eggs around on his plate.

When Ian returned to the kitchen, he looked slightly subdued. He caught Jack's eye, a silent apology, and she smiled reluctantly. _It's okay, Ian._

"Something wrong?" Hank said gruffly, sipping his coffee.

"I've been called away on business," Ian said.

"Oh." Sharon's face fell. "Well—that's okay. We'll still have today with you. You and Jack can show us around London—"

"Mom," Jack said flatly.

"What is it, Sweetie?"

Ian rubbed his forehead. "I have to be at the airport in one hour."

Sharon's hand flew to her mouth. Ian had sounded perfectly calm, which made Hank equally furious.

"Listen, bud," he said, his voice low and rough. "That's our daughter you're walking out on. She says your absences are unpredictable. Who the hell knows how long you'll be gone?"

"I'm sorry," Ian said, quiet and honest. "I'll be back as soon as possible."

"Which, apparently, can go on for weeks at a time. Even months." Hank folded his burly arms. "I'm tempted to think you don't love her as much as you say."

Jack bit her lip. Ian had, in fact, never claimed to love her.

"The only reason I hired Jack was to care for Alex while I was away," Ian said, his voice slightly sharper than usual. "It follows, then, that I'd spend some time away."

"A lot of time," Hank snapped. "I can't help but wonder. Can you really love someone if you're always apart?"

"A valid point," Ian said, his voice dangerously calm—Jack feared for her father. "It really begs the question: how much time have you and Jack spent together in the past five years?"

Hank swore loudly and half-rose from his chair—Sharon grabbed his arm, whispering something about his blood pressure, and Jack met Ian's apologetic gaze. She was surprised he'd risen to Hank's challenge—surprised, but not shocked. Though Ian was impervious to most people's games, Jack knew he wasn't bulletproof.

"I'm afraid I have to pack an overnight bag," Ian said, drinking the last of his coffee. "If you'd care to continue this conversation—" Jack almost laughed. "—Feel free to join me upstairs."

"Don't think I won't," Hank snapped, slamming down his napkin so hard that all the plates rattled.

Sharon's cheeks were rose-tinged with embarrassment, but she didn't say anything. Ian left the room, and Hank followed him, breathing like an angry bull. Jack smirked slightly.

"Dad," she muttered, shaking her head.

"He means well," Sharon said faintly.

Jack nodded, staring down at her half-eaten breakfast, remembering the clink of forks against glasses, remembering the hesitation on Ian's face just before he'd kissed her.

"Yeah," she said. "I guess we all do."

ARARAR

"—Just so damn wrong! Running off halfway around the world, spending months unaccounted for and bringing back a few trashy souvenirs, dumping my daughter with a kid who's not even hers so she can't even finish her damn education—" Hank slammed the door backward against the wall, just to get Ian's attention. "Would you just _listen_ to me?"

"I'm beginning to see where Jack gets her temper," Ian said, folding a jet-black shirt and layering it in his suitcase.

"You disgust me," Hank snarled.

Ian slid a sleek black cell phone under his pile of shirts. "Care to elaborate?"

"I've seen men like you," Hank said, taking a step closer. "Men who've got the money, the cars, the corporate job. Women are just another piece in your collection. Living, breathing sex toys."

"A blunt analysis," Ian remarked, closing his suitcase.

"If I'm blunt, at least I'm honest." Hank laughed, but he sounded like he wanted to cry. "Listen, man. If you want to live that way, that's fine. But not with _my_ daughter. You want something pretty on your arm? That's what escorts are for. Surely a man like you can afford to pay a little cash out of pocket."

"Where's the fun in that?" Ian said calmly.

He fiddled with the suitcase latches, and Hank slammed his fist against the wall.

"_Listen _to me. This time, when you leave my daughter alone and run around with women from France or Russia or Indonesia—or even if you're really just running off to get a hotel room with some woman from across the street—I don't want you to come back." He leaned closer, his gray eyes smoldering. "Don't come back, or you'll wish you hadn't. You hear me?"

Ian stood up, and for the first time, he looked Hank straight in the eyes. Involuntarily, the burly man stepped backward. Ian's blue eyes were chips of ice.

"I hear you," Ian said, very quietly.

Hank tried not to sound intimidated. "Damn straight."

But Ian wasn't finished. There was another trip to South Africa looming over his head, and he'd spent the past twelve hours helping Jack lie to her infuriatingly blind parents, and he'd made probably the worst mistake of his life yesterday. He'd kissed her, because he'd been able to hide behind a cover identity. Kissed her, because technically they'd been playing roles. Kissed her, because he wanted to.

But after the kiss, the way she'd looked at him—

"I hear you," Ian repeated, using the tone of voice he usually reserved for the worst of scumbags, the terrorists and traitors and murderers. Admittedly a little harsh. "What I'm hearing is that you think Jack is promiscuous enough, or clueless enough, to let a man ride her a few times around the block and then dump her when he's done with her."

"I didn't say—"

"And from what I've heard," Ian continued, "you also think she's too smart for a man to fall in love with her, but too stupid to make decisions for herself."

Hank stared at him, speechless.

"I can tell you," Ian said flatly, "you're wrong on both counts."

Hank took a deep breath. He was shaken, but determined. "Then why isn't there a ring on her finger?"

Ian picked up his suitcase. "Why's there a ring on yours?"

Hank stared at him. Blinked. "How'd—how'd you know—"

"I think you should tell your daughter," Ian said quietly.

He turned away, opened the door, and left Hank alone in his bedroom, at a loss for words.

ARARAR

Jack sat on the couch, slumped over, watching silent images of house fires and shopping carts and channel 7 logos flash across the TV screen. Her mom sat next to her, spouting pointless chatter—the news, or the weather, or how much she'd like to ride on a double decker bus.

Finally, Ian came downstairs. He apologized quietly to Sharon, told her how much he'd enjoyed meeting her, and then pulled Jack to her feet and hugged her close. Jack drank in these last moments of being Ian's girlfriend. Even if it wasn't real, it was something.

"Already missing you," Ian said—and then, under his breath, "I think I just scarred your father for life."

"Did he deserve it?" Jack whispered, smirking slightly.

"He doesn't have enough faith in you."

Jack glanced sideways at her mom, who was pretending to watch TV. She wondered how much time would have to pass before her mom wondered when he'd propose, when they'd have the wedding, when the first grandchildren would enter the world. She imagined the hurt that would etch itself on her mother's face if the truth ever came out.

"I feel sorry for you," Jack breathed.

Ian raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

She pressed her forehead against his, so that they were eye-to-eye. "Lying sucks."

Ian laughed. He kissed her on the forehead—_Acting_, she reminded herself fiercely—and then he hugged Alex good-bye, made him promise to practice his karate lesson every day, and crossed the living room. His hand was on the doorknob when Hank hurried across the living room and grabbed Ian's shoulder.

At first Jack thought her dad was going to yell at Ian, or perhaps even try to hit him—now _that _would be something to see. Instead, Hank whispered in Ian's ear. Ian looked startled, and the men exchanged a few words. Then Ian nodded once, squeezed Hank's shoulder, and disappeared out the door.

Jack thought the drama was done. Then her dad took a deep breath.

"Jack," he said, "Babe, sit down. Your mother and I have something to tell you."

ARARAR

Ian turned the corner and pressed down the gas pedal. He knew the route to the airport like the back of his hand, but as usual, he'd stop in for a briefing with Blunt. Perhaps a few gadgets from Smithers, his favorite man at MI6.

As he drove, Hank Starbright's words repeated in his head.

"Sharon and I are divorced," the man had whispered. "Have been for a year."

Ian hadn't said anything. He'd suspected as soon as he'd seen Jack's dysfunctional parents smiling so easily; he'd known as soon as Hank had fidgeted with his ring as though it was too tight, and as soon as Sharon removed her ring to wash the dishes and revealed no tan-line on her fourth finger.

"I'm going to tell Jackie," Hank had added. "You were right. We were trying to protect her, but she can handle the truth."

"She can," Ian agreed, trying to ignore the irony.

"And—" Hank paused. "I'm sorry for what I said."

"You don't have to—"

"No," Hank interrupted, grinning at the man he believed to be his future son-in-law. "You were right. After hearing you talk about her, after seeing the look on your face, I can tell."

He looked Ian in the eye.

"You love her."

Squinting into the sun, turning the steering wheel, Ian heard the words again. He stared straight ahead, drove twenty over the speed limit, and turned up the classical station on the radio. Someone was playing the Moonlight Sonata.

**Thanks so much for reading! Now, the review button's right there...just one click away...you know you want to... :)**

**And a huge thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: Claire Ride, armanifan101, big dreamer girl, The Feral Candy Cane, Chaos Dragon, EwanLuvr4Ever, Crello, Iamawsome, amitKa, Sacred3, DarkElements10, jesusfreak100percent, red rose of love, Nylah, Talionyzero, dontcallmemadeline, kiwismakemehappy, me (haha), Yasu Nozomi, Devachi, PwnedByPineapple, JaBoyYa, and Rae. You're all just the best. :D**


	15. Broken

**WHEW….new chapter, finally. :) **

**WARNING: this chapter is a bit graphic, guys. (You'll notice I went back awhile ago and changed the rating from K+ to T…this story definitely started out more innocent than it is now!)**

**Enjoy!**

"_I guess there's got to be a break in the monotony, but Jesus, when it rains how it pours."_

Jack and Alex sat at the kitchen table, staring down at their half-eaten plates of vegetable stir fry, listening to the rain drumming on the roof and trickling from the gutters.

"What do we do?" Alex said finally.

Jack glanced at the scrap of yellow paper, neatly folded, smudged with tiny handwriting. A bolt of lightning lit the kitchen like a flashbulb, and a rumble of thunder rattled the windowpanes.

"Can we pretend we couldn't read it?" she said finally.

Alex glanced up at her. "Would that make us illiterate, or just really thick?"

"Either." Jack sighed, massaging her temples. "Both."

"I wish Ian would come with us," Alex said in a small voice.

Another crash of thunder, and then the house was silent. Jack and Alex left their half-eaten dinner on the table, grabbed an umbrella, and went out to the Jag. As they buckled their seatbelts, they didn't notice the man in a combat jacket striding purposefully down the sidewalk.

Alex wondered whether child services would give him a chance to explain; Jack considered how strange it was that Ian had just gotten home fifteen minutes ago.

ARARAR

"Welcome home," Jack said brightly, glancing over her shoulder.

In the kitchen doorway, Ian Rider managed a tired half-smile. "It smells like heaven in here."

"And you look like hell," Jack replied bluntly, sprinkling a pinch of ginger into the sizzling skillet of vegetables. "Did they starve you in Iraq, or are you trying for the emaciated look?"

"You know me too well," Ian said, deadpan.

He slung off his sport coat and draped it over the back of a dining chair; Jack bit her lip and returned her attention to the stove. She hadn't just been teasing. Ian's blue eyes were slightly red-rimmed, with dark circles beneath them. And he looked thinner and paler than usual.

"Must've been a hell of a business summit," she murmured.

"It was torture," Ian agreed.

"Thank God you survived."

"Already did." His gaze flicked to the small TV behind Jack's head. "D'you mind if I turn on the news?"

"Go for it," Jack said, stirring the vegetables in teriyaki sauce. "You've only been gone three weeks—what could we possibly have to talk about?"

His lip twitched slightly. "I'm sorry, Jack. How was Easter?"

"We colored eggs. Ate chocolate. You know, the usual."

"You went to church, didn't you?"

Jack flushed—not embarrassed that she'd tried out a local church service, but thrown by the fact that Ian had somehow known about it. "What, were you spying on us from Baghdad?"

There was a half-smile on his lips. "Your mom forwarded me the pictures you sent her."

Jack blinked. "All of them?"

"I think so."

"Oh, God," she moaned.

"At what point did it seem like a good idea to smash a raw egg against your forehead?"

Jack laughed; Ian's voice was dry enough to parch the ocean. "Lacey pink sundresses and salmonella—it's a Starbright family tradition."

Ian grinned in that wry, reluctant way that only he could, and Jack's heart jumped. Across the house, a lock clicked and the front door thudded open.

"Jack?"

"In the kitchen," Jack hollered, stirring the vegetables again.

A few seconds later, Alex appeared in the kitchen doorway, his blonde hair windswept and tangled, a football tucked under his arm. When he saw his uncle, his eyes widened.

"You're home."

"For almost two minutes now," Ian agreed, with a ghost of a smile.

Alex set down his dark-blue backpack. "I'd hug you, but maybe you should eat first. You look a bit like a skeleton. A really tired skeleton."

There was something strained in Ian's face, but he laughed. "Didn't that church mention anything about mercy?"

"Nah. Just something about sheep." Alex dropped his football in the corner. "How was Baghdad?"

"It was fine, Alex. Rather dull. I'm glad to be home."

Jack saw Alex hesitate. She knew the eleven-year-old boy had something else to say—there was worried anticipation in his face, a look Jack had learned to recognize—but she also knew that Alex didn't want to bother Ian with whatever bad news he'd brought home from school.

"Just tell us, Alex," she said gently. "Do it fast."

The boy sighed. "Like a band-aid?"

"Like a guillotine."

Alex rubbed his forehead, and for a moment he looked remarkably like an eleven-year-old Ian.

"It's just," he said slowly, "my teacher sent a note home for you to read."

He'd been expecting a grave response, a million questions; Ian merely ruffled his nephew's hair. "Don't worry about it."

"Shouldn't you read it first?" Alex said doubtfully.

"After dinner."

Biting her lip, Jack added a sprinkle of salt to the stir-fry; Alex poured himself a glass of water; Ian flicked on the television.

And then Jack gasped. "Oh my God."

The news channel was broadcasting a photograph—a twisted heap of bodies, naked and bleeding, none of their faces visible. Two United States army rangers stood grinning behind the prisoners, flashing the camera a thumbs-up.

Jack glanced at Ian. His jaw was suddenly clenched.

"—_In the past month, various sources have leaked further photographic evidence for the abuse and torture at Abu Ghraib," _the newscaster was saying, his voice crisp and businesslike._ "The States-run prison is located thirty-two kilometers west of Baghdad—"_

"Baghdad," Jack whispered, glancing at Ian again. "Oh my God—you were right next door to them."

"—_One prisoner, Kasim Mehaddi Hilas, claims that U.S. Army Reservist Charles Graner handcuffed him to cell bars and left him hanging there for nearly five hours; another prisoner reported that Graner chained him facedown to a bed and sodomized him repeatedly with a phosphoric light. Charles Graner has declined to comment, but—"_

"Enough," Jack said, stabbing the 'mute button.

The TV fell silent. A muscle jumped in Ian's jaw, but otherwise he was perfectly composed.

"Alex," he said, "help me lay the table."

Alex nodded silently and slid open the silverware drawer; Ian grabbed three glass plates. The television screen focused on a pair of army rangers, beating naked prisoners with thick ropes. Once again, both rangers were grinning broadly.

"It's inhuman," Jack whispered.

"They _are _human," Ian corrected quietly. "That's the point."

Jack didn't know what to say. She reached to turn off the television, but her finger brushed the volume knob, and suddenly the reporter's voice—vulgar, almost cheerful—was blasting from the speakers.

"—_claim that Graner put razor blades in their food and forced them to eat it—"_

"Shit." Jack fumbled for the remote.

"—_could face a forfeiture of pay, a dishonorable discharge, and even a maximum of 24 years in prison—"_

Jack stabbed the power button, too late. She didn't see Ian's eyes darken, didn't hear him swear under his breath. She only saw a flash of movement, and suddenly a dinner plate was shattering against the wall—shards of glass rained down on the milk and honey linoleum.

There was a stunned silence.

"Hell," Ian muttered, wetting his lips.

There was a broom and dustpan leaning against the far wall. Ian moved forward quickly, but Jack was closer—they grabbed the wooden handle at the same moment.

"Jack," Ian said, his blue eyes intense, "I'll clean it up."

She didn't let go. "I'm the housekeeper."

"But I'm the one who broke it."

She looked him in the eye. "It was already broken, Ian."

Alex looked from Jack to Ian, his forehead creasing. "Are you still talking about a plate?"

They stared at each other for a long moment. Ian swallowed hard—for once, he was the one pinned beneath her gaze. Then, abruptly, he turned and disappeared from the kitchen. Jack heard his footsteps across the living room, heard the doorknob turn. He didn't storm away, didn't slam any doors. He simply walked out.

Ten seconds later, a silver BMW pulled out of the driveway.

"I'm going to assume," Jack said, her voice trembling slightly, "that he's coming back."

Alex didn't speak. His brown eyes glimmered with something unfamiliar—doubt, or self-loathing. There was a yellow slip of paper in his hand.

"It's okay, Alex, let me see."

Wordlessly, he handed her the note.

Jack read it. She read it again. Then, numbly, she tightened her hands around the broom handle and swept up the broken glass.

ARARAR

"Alex," Ms. Wakefield said, fluffing her long blonde hair, "I want you to know that you can trust me."

Alex stared at her from across the teacher's desk. "Okay."

The bell had rung thirty seconds ago; his classmates had already flooded out into the corridor, chattering, cramming schoolbooks into backpacks, but Ms. Wakefield had asked Alex to stay behind. She fixed him with a cool gaze. Alex didn't flinch, didn't look away—growing up with Ian Rider had its advantages.

"As I'm sure you remember," Ms. Wakefield continued, "parents' night is tonight."

The blonde boy blinked. _That's it?_

"I just want to make sure that your parents will be attending."

"They can't," Alex said. "They're dead."

He hadn't meant to embarrass his teacher—it was the truth, and seemed easiest just to say it. But Ms. Wakefield's rose-petal cheeks flushed a deeper scarlet. She leaned forward in her cushioned leather chair.

"Alex," she said, in a low voice, "who's your legal guardian?"

"My uncle. He's away on business."

"He seems to go away often," Ms. Wakefield said, looking so grieved that Alex worried for her health.

"Ma'am, it's no big deal," he said quickly. "Ian always travels safe, and he's just off at boring meetings and things like that."

"You're too young to be home alone, Alex."

"I'm not alone. There's Jack, our—" He had no idea what to call her. "Our housekeeper, I suppose."

"Your uncle deigns it appropriate to leave you alone with a strange man?"

Alex didn't know what "deigns" meant, but it didn't matter. "Jack's not a strange man," he said, his lip twitching.

"Well." Ms. Wakefield leaned forward again. "I hate to say this, Alex. But with your prolonged absences from school—"

"Ian takes me on holiday," Alex said firmly. "We just got back from France a month ago."

"Your occasional bruises—" she pressed.

"Rock climbing," he explained. "Skiing. Football. Karate."

"And not to mention the fact that your guardian has never come to a single parents' night—"

"He has a _job_," Alex reminded her, his voice perhaps a little too sharp to be addressing his teacher.

Ms. Wakefield only sighed. "I hate to issue an ultimatum. But either your guardian shows up tonight, or you force me to contact child services." She fixed him with another stare. "That means your uncle would get in a lot of trouble, Alex. It means people could take you away from him."

"Away from him?" Alex repeated, confused.

"If that's what you want, don't be afraid to—"

"Why would I want that?" Alex demanded, his heart pounding faster.

"Give this note to your guardian," Ms. Wakefield said softly, sliding an envelope into Alex's hands.

"I told you, he's out of town."

She smiled sympathetically. "Remember, Alex. I'm on your side."

That wasn't exactly how Alex would've put it. He turned away, brown eyes downcast, wondering where this disaster would register on the Jack Starbright Richter scale.

ARARAR

Jack held up the note in the light, as though it might be counterfeit.

"Child services?" she whispered. "The hell?"

It was so wrong, so absurd. But her burning anger had dulled into something worse—she felt paralyzed, as though she'd missed a step and forgotten how to find the next one.

"Ian could take care of this," Alex said flatly.

Jack raked a hand through her long red hair. "Should we call him?"

They stared at each other. Then Jack crumpled the note in her hand.

"This is just utter bullshit. Your teacher says she's been 'watching' you for a few months. That sounds a little off, doesn't it? You think I could bring her up on child molestation charges? Stalking, maybe?"

"I don't think that'd solve the problem," Alex said, cracking a small grin.

Jack sighed. "Yeah, but it'd make me feel better."

There was a long silence. Jack paced the kitchen, six frantic steps back and forth, and Alex stared at the kitchen counter. Then Jack took a deep breath, removed the sizzling pan from the heat, and slid chicken teriyaki and vegetables onto two plates.

"Could they really take me away?" Alex said, in a small voice.

"No," Jack said firmly, dropping the crumpled note in the bin

She was bold.

She was lying.

"Okay," Alex agreed quietly, spearing a carrot at the end of his fork.

ARARAR

_You must have mastered this,_

_The fragile art of a good excuse,_

_The little things that get you to believe._

ARARAR

Raindrops exploded against the slick pavement; Jack and Alex squeezed together under a black umbrella, squinting into the downpour. The school parking lot was crammed with minivans and four-door sedans, boxed together like metal sardines, windshield wipers working frantically.

"Option one," Jack muttered. "We go home, and we pray that Ian will show up to fix everything."

A bolt of lightning, like a flashbulb.

"Option two," she plunged on. "We hop on a train and adapt to a life as fugitive hobos."

Thunder, deep and rolling, like bowling pins.

"Is there an option three?" Alex said, his voice half-buried in the downpour.

"I'm working on it."

As she and Alex neared the school entrance, Jack's stomach twisted. There were families everywhere—neat little units with wedding rings and matching noses and family cars. Jack was suddenly painfully, acutely aware. Alex, an orphan who'd been shipped around the globe and treated like an adult before he'd even hit puberty—Ian, a man who'd never asked to be a father, who lived in secrets for no discernable reason, who spent more time overseas than home.

And an American girl, passionate and intelligent and crazy, who'd somehow fallen in love with him.

"Forget parents' night," she muttered. "We should just hop on a boat to the Island of Misfit Toys."

The school lobby was drab and crowded, and buzzing with fluorescent lights. Jack's black ballet-flats squelched on the white tile; she wiped her feet and shook raindrops off her black umbrella, and for the thousandth time, wondered if she should've just let Ian clean up his own damn mess.

ARARAR

The street was empty, the parking lot deserted.

Ian cut the ignition and sat like a statue, watching the windshield wipers and listening to the rain.

"_It was already broken, Ian."_

He could still hear the raw screams echoing across the compound. He could still feel Graner clapping him congenially on the shoulder, could still see him spitting in the face of a half-dead prisoner. And he could hear his own voice, calm and controlled.

He could see the hurt in Jack's eyes.

Once every two or three years, Ian Rider suffered a crisis of faith. Doubts about the way his life was. He could always see it coming, but it startled him, nonetheless. It was irrelevant. Dangerous. He could see the cracks in his life, the stress fractures. He imagined kissing Jack whenever he felt like it. He imagined sitting in the stands at Alex's football games. He imagined putting his arm around Jack's shoulders as he walked beside her, imagined feeling her hand slide along his back, easy, casual.

The world was broken, and Ian couldn't sit back and ignore it.

But he wished he could.

"Enough," he told himself, sternly.

These crises rarely lasted longer than ten minutes. This one had lasted five.

ARARAR

When Ian got home, the house was dark and empty. He removed his wet shoes, flicked the light switch. Nothing. The thunderstorm must've plunged the neighborhood into a power outage. He made his way through the pitch-dark living room, to the kitchen drawer where he kept the candles. The house was eerily quiet. He wondered where Jack and Alex had gone—the Jag hadn't been parked out front.

As he reached for the drawer handle, Ian heard a faint click.

_Bloody perfect._

He dove sideways, under the table—a split second later he heard the gunshot, and a wineglass on the counter exploded into tiny, sparkling shards.

"You can't hide forever!" a rough male voice shouted.

No time to think, only to react. Another gunshot. Ian heard the creak of floorboards—he knew exactly where the hit man was. With reckless force, he threw a wooden chair and rolled out from beneath the table. In the darkness, he could just see the man's black silhouette, stumbling over the chair.

Another shot fired—missed. Ian grabbed the gun, forced it upward. He prayed the man wouldn't fire into the ceiling.

"You dare look me in the eye?" the man snarled, in a vaguely Russian accent.

Overhead, the lights flickered on and off and on again. Face-to-face, fighting for control of the gun, Ian noted the man's sunken cheeks, his angular nose, his gray eyes burning with hatred. Ian scanned his mental database.

"Sorry," he said, genuinely perplexed, "but have we met?"

"You ruined my life!"

"A surname might help," Ian suggested.

The man snarled and, with a burst of strength, shoved Ian back against the edge of the table—Ian took advantage of the man's blind rage to release the gun with one hand, reach behind him, and grab a bread knife from Jack's dinner plate.

The man didn't realize, at first, what had happened.

His gun clattered to the floor.

"You—"

Ian twisted the knife, pulled it out, and stepped back. The man dropped to his knees, both hands cupping the wound, pooling with dark blood. It almost looked as though he was trying to scoop the blood back into his chest. Then his hands started to shake.

"Perfect," Ian muttered, his voice raw.

The hit man collapsed to the kitchen floor, gurgling—a horrible, wet sound. His eyes were already losing focus.

"_Look at me_." Ian grabbed him by the combat jacket and pulled him up a few inches, forcing the man to meet Ian's eyes. "How'd you find me?"

There was blood in the man's mouth, trickling down his chin.

"You'll be dead in three minutes," Ian said, grabbing the man's gun and cocking it. "I can make it quicker. Are you acting alone, or should I expect another dinner guest?"

The man slowly focused his weak gray eyes on Ian's face.

"Tell me," Ian said sharply.

"G—go to hell," the man gasped.

If the man had accomplices to protect, he would've insisted that he'd been acting alone.

Ian didn't bother to hide his relief. "I'll meet you there."

He pulled the trigger, and the gunshot was buried in a clap of thunder.

Ian was glad that this had been a personal grudge, and not a terrorist strike. He was less than glad, however, about the dead man on the kitchen floor. His head throbbed, the beginning of a migraine. He opened the cupboard under the sink and grabbed a towel, a bottle of bleach, a spray bottle of household cleaner.

That was when he saw the yellow note, crumpled up at the bottom of the bin.

ARARAR

When Jack and Alex knocked at Ms. Wakefield's classroom door, the blonde woman was applying another coat of frosty pink lipstick, squinting into a handheld mirror.

"That's her," Alex whispered.

Ms. Wakefield glanced up. "Alex!"

"She looks like Teacher Barbie," Jack murmured.

Ms. Wakefield slid her compact into a drawer and opened her grade-book. "I didn't expect to see you here. But please, come inside."

The classroom was deserted, with rows and rows of empty desks and a series of multiplication problems on the chalkboard. As Jack and Alex approached the teacher's desk, Jack saw Alex's jaw tighten. It was remarkable, how he and Ian could be so similar and yet so different. Jack tried to keep her heart beating at a normal pace.

"I'm sorry," Ms. Wakefield said, frowning pointedly at Jack. "Who're you?"

"I'm Alex's nanny," she said firmly, sitting beside Alex in one of the rickety wooden chairs.

"You're Jack?" Ms. Wakefield's eyes narrowed skeptically. "How old are you? Nineteen?"

"I'm twenty-five. I can show you my driver's license, if you want—"

"That won't be necessary," Ms. Wakefield said, smiling sadly. "I take it you received my note?"

"About an hour ago."

"And have you noticed the bruises?" Ms. Wakefield pressed, her blue eyes glimmering. "Can you explain the prolonged absences?"

Jack took a deep breath. W.W.I.D. Polite, but confident.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Wakefield," she said firmly, "but you're jumping to conclusions. I'd be happy to discuss this like adults, but—"

"How else would we discuss it?" Ms. Wakefield said, with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

Jack flushed slightly. _W.W.I.D._ "All I mean is, you're judging Ian based on circumstantial evidence and false assumptions. There are no suspicious bruises. No mysterious absences. I promise, Ms. Wakefield, Ian Rider is caring and capable."

The fake smile faded. "Jack, please."

"What?"

"I've been a teacher long enough that you're lying."

It was like a slap in the face—not because Jack was lying, but because she wasn't.

"I'm a law student," Jack said, struggling to keep her voice calm. "If you won't hear me out—"

"A law student?" Ms. Wakefield interrupted, arching her delicate eyebrows. "How can you possibly look after the boy if you're busy with law school?"

"I—I didn't mean—"

"My God." The teacher clutched her gold-plated locket. "You haven't even noticed the neglect, have you? You're as bad as Ian is."

"Ms. Wakefield," Alex cut in, "you don't understand—"

"I assure you, Alex, I do." The woman leaned forward again, her heart-shaped charm swinging dizzyingly back and forth. "Your parents are dead. You've been shuffled between an absent, dangerous uncle and this—this flaky teenage student."

"I'm twenty-five," Jack repeated, but Ms. Wakefield ignored her.

"You don't have to stay with them, Alex. You can get out; you can learn what family means."

Jack's green eyes flashed.

"Listen," she said, "you melodramatic bitch."

Ms. Wakefield blinked; Alex's lip twitched.

"You don't know a damn thing about family," Jack plunged on. "I've been living with the Riders for four years, and we know what family means better than you know how to inject collagen into your lips. Ian's risked his life for us, more than once."

"Which begs the question of how you ended up in life-threatening circumstances in the first place," Ms. Wakefield said, with a frozen smile.

"He's always there for us."

"And yet he's halfway around the world."

"He's an overseas finance manager," Jack snapped. "Key word: overseas. And he works hard to take care of Alex—that's why I'm here, to help out when he's gone."

The teacher's eyes burned. The pretense, the kindness, the deep concern—it was gone.

"Miss Starbright," she said, very coldly, "you can insult me. You can act like an insolent child all you'd like. But if you can't prove to me that Ian Rider is a responsible guardian, I'll be calling child services when I get home tonight."

Jack blinked. "I—I can't—"

"Ian's not here now," Alex said, sounding exasperated.

Ms. Wakefield ignored him. "You're not Alex's guardian, Miss Starbright. Ian Rider is. So where is he?"

Jack felt small and frustrated and furious, all at once.

"Ian is—he's—"

"A little late," Ian interrupted smoothly.

Jack gasped, whipping around. Ian was crossing the classroom, one hand tucked in his pocket, his blue eyes unshakably calm and cool. Relief—warm, glorious relief—swept over Jack. Beside her, Alex was fighting a grin.

"You're Alex's guardian?" Ms. Wakefield said, looking stunned.

"I think Jack's already covered that part," Ian said mildly.

He pulled up a chair between Jack and Alex. For a split second, he met Jack's eyes; a flash of understanding passed between them.

"I'm sorry," Ian said quietly.

Jack nodded. _It's okay. I know._

"Well." Ms. Wakefield bristled. "Jack's covered a great deal. She's mentioned, for instance, that you drag Alex off to France and God-knows-where, when he should be in school—and you trust your nephew's care to a girl who's otherwise occupied with law school and her own rubbish. Doesn't sound very responsible to me. Care to explain yourself?"

Ian leaned forward. "I'd like to respect your time, Ms. Wakefield, so I'll speak plainly."

She blinked. "Okay."

"You don't have a damn clue what you're talking about."

Jack almost laughed. She'd tried, at first, to sound calm and polite, but Ian was clearly in no mood for diplomacy. Ms. Wakefield hadn't been expecting it; her mouth opened and closed, like a goldfish out of water.

"What—what do you mean?" she managed.

"Are family vacations and business trips punishable offenses?" Ian said, an edge to his voice.

"Of—of course not."

"Then we're in agreement."

"But—" Ms. Wakefield's voice sounded slightly choked.

"Go on," Ian said, his blue eyes disarming. "Did you want to accuse me of something else?"

"I—I'd never met his family," she said fervently. "He had—bruises. Long absences."

Ian nodded without any particular concern. "More bruises than other athletic students?"

"Well—not noticeably."

"Have his excused absences affected his schoolwork?"

Ms. Wakefield glanced at the small marks in her grade-book. "Not that I've seen."

"Thank you, Ms. Wakefield. Like I said, I won't waste any of your time."

He scraped his chair back and returned it to the proper place; Jack stood up, hardly daring to breathe. And then Ian was thanking Ms. Wakefield with an ironic smile, and he, Jack, and Alex were walking out of the classroom.

"She doesn't have a damn clue?" Jack whispered, her eyes sparkling, as she and Alex followed Ian down the corridor.

"You're right," Ian said, his lip twitching. "I should've just called her an insufferable bitch."

"Melodramatic," Alex corrected helpfully.

Ian grinned. "My mistake."

They'd reached the parking lot, and the rain was coming down hard. Ian and Jack each opened an umbrella, and Alex huddled under Jack's, splashing through a dark puddle, as they made their way to the BMW and the Jag, parked side-by-side.

"Do you think she's going to call somebody?" Alex said, still trying not to laugh. "Y'know, child services?"

"I seriously doubt it."

Jack shook her head in astonishment. "My God, Ian. That was amazing, but what the hell happened to diplomacy?"

A flash of lightning illuminated the parking lot, the minivans and four-door sedans, the perfect little families. Then there was a thunderclap like a gunshot; Ian thought of kissing Jack, of tortured screams, of scrubbing dried blood off his skin and fresh blood from linoleum tiles.

He shrugged. Forced a smile.

"Just one of those days, I suppose."

ARARAR

"_I appreciate your courtesy, your well-earned politesse,_

_But you got yourself into your own mess._

_You know, the demon's in the design . . . _

_It seemed like a good idea at the time."_

~Fin

**Thanks so much for reading. :) Now, if you have a spare second…I'm not kidding when I say that reviews help me write faster!!!**

**A huge thank-you to all the fantastic, far-too-kind reviewers of the last chapter: Iamawsome, Chaos Dragon, C00kieMonster, White Tempest, Julia, Sacred3, Claire Ride, 32-star, dontcallmemadeline, armanifan101, Fraulein Weisenheimer, me, EwanLuvr4Ever, 2-lazy-2-log-in (haha), Arica, Princess of Rivendell, big dreamer girl, Siphor, Turn-On-The-Stars, The Feral Candy Cane, kuyoki1789, apiratesmile, St. Danger, Padawan-BubbyKenobi, Yasu Nozomi, Sweet Light, snowangel786, RaNdOmGeEk, red rose of love, Leonessa Ivanovna, hypercell, Fuzzylogic, kiwismakemehappy, chariots99, Nylah, ., PwnedByPineapple, Akira Setsuka, cookie n cream, and SilverrAngell. I'm so grateful for your feedback and encouragement!**


	16. Ashes to Ashes

**(Peeks out from the dark hole I've been hiding in) So...on the off-chance that anyone remembers this story, here's a brand-new chapter for you guys! It's really long...hopefully that'll make up a little bit for the five years or so it took me to write it. o.o Sorry if there are typos...I just got this finished and wanted to post it for you guys ASAP :) I've reached a point where I can start having time to write for fun again, so I'm going to try to take this story off hiatus and get back to regular updates...as in, every 2 weeks or so. I promise I'll do my best!**

**I've also just gotten completely hooked on this quaint little show called Doctor Who... :P Ahh! In the past 2 weeks I've watched all of Matt Smith and 2 seasons of David Tenant...so amazing! What would you think of a Doctor Who/Alex Rider crossover? Because I think that would be pretty freakin' epic. Incidentally, there's also an obscure Doctor Who quote slipped into this chapter...couldn't help myself. (grins)**

**WARNING: just a quick reminder that this story is no longer rated K! I'd call this chapter PG-13, probably.**

**Enjoy! **

"Okay," Jack Starbright said briskly, dropping down beside Ian on the red leather couch. "Here's the plan: we crack open the peach schnapps, mix up some fuzzy navels, and play truth or dare."

Ian glanced up from his top-secret file—a file which, conveniently, Jack couldn't read. "I think you'd better move to plan B," he said gently.

"Fine," Jack muttered, flipping through the television channels—a trashy reality show, a Doctor Who rerun, and an Animal Planet documentary. "We'll just sit here all night, so that I can worry myself to death and think about how quiet the house is."

Ian rubbed his forehead tiredly. It was nine-thirty at night, and he'd been reading the same sentence for ten minutes, without really seeing it. Of course, the sentence was coded, half-blacked out, and written in Arabic, but Jack's compulsive channel-surfing didn't help. "We could turn up the volume," he said blandly.

Jack folded her arms. "Don't tempt me."

A ghost of a smile flickered across Ian's face. "I hope you don't get like this every time I take Alex abroad."

"Of course not," Jack said impatiently. "I know he'll be fine if you're with him. I only worry when he's camping out in the middle of nowhere with Teacher Barbie and a bunch of clueless eleven-year-olds. Like now, for instance."

Ian leaned back against the couch cushions. "Well, when you put it that way."

"I mean, what if they get lost?" Jack plunged on, clutching the TV remote just for something to hold onto. "What if there's a—a mountain lion attack or something? For God's sake, my sixth grade class used to go to the science museum."

"The museum," Ian echoed absently, underlining something in red. "Now there's a good practical outing. Camping sounds a bit more fun, though, doesn't it?"

Jack stared at him for a long moment. Then, suddenly, she laughed.

"What?" Ian said, slightly defensive.

"Nothing."

"Except?"

Jack shrugged, biting her lip to keep from smiling. "You've changed a bit, haven't you?"

Ian knew immediately what she meant. Four years ago, he'd given his seven-year-old nephew a hand-painted compass from Korea. "Right," he said grimly, prying the remote from Jack's hand. "Don't look so smug." He muted the TV, on a documentary about Great White sharks. "You forgot plan C, by the way. Don't we have a date with some Turkish coffee?"

Jack couldn't resist a grin. "I guess so."

Ian pulled her to her feet with one hand, and they crossed the living room to the kitchen. Outside the window, somewhere in the darkness, a police siren wailed.

ARARAR

"We have the area surrounded—come out with your hands up!"

The man with dark hair ignored the sirens, ignored the flashing lights. He was currently descending an ivy-covered wall, his fingernails digging into the grooves in the brick. The police were looking for him next door, an abandoned property awash with searchlights. No one noticed a dark shadow leap from one roof to the next. And they certainly didn't notice him now, as he dropped to the soft green lawn and rolled behind a row of hedges. His arm spasmed with pain, which he also ignored—he wasn't impervious, just professional.

"Don't try to run! We will open fire!"

The dark-haired man squinted through the darkness. A house number. He was close. He'd found the right neighborhood, almost the right street.

But he was looking for a specific house. Terraced. Red-brick.

And he was hoping Ian Rider wouldn't kill him once he got there.

ARARAR

"They use gas burners in the Middle East?" Jack Starbright murmured.

She and Ian were standing side-by-side in the kitchen. Ian dropped two tablespoons of dark coffee grounds into the copper pot. "That, or the hot sands of the Mediterranean."

"Wouldn't that taste a little gritty?"

"Nah." Ian put the pot on the stove. "Adds flavor."

"Too bad the sands of the Thames aren't quite hot enough," Jack murmured.

Ian caught her eye, and they both grinned. Jack tried to remember how he'd ever seemed intimidating. She leaned back against the gleaming white counters, hands tucked into the sleeves of her gray Stanford sweater. Alex had been gone for two days, and she'd just scrubbed the whole kitchen in an effort to keep herself from worrying. With a deep, calming breath, she reached into the cupboard and grabbed two enormous clay mugs.

Ian's lip twitched. "Maybe we shouldn't drink too much caffeine, Jack. Don't you have plans in the morning?"

Jack stared down into the dark liquid. "I don't know. I might cancel."

"He seemed nice," Ian remarked, turning up the heat on the stove.

"Like beige paint," Jack agreed flatly.

"It's not every day a first date offers to cook you breakfast."

"Sure," Jack said, stirring the coffee. "But he asked me out in the produce aisle. Isn't that a little—weird? Not to mention that he was wearing red socks with brown loafers."

A half-smile played around Ian's lips. "Well, nobody's perfect."

Unexpectedly, Jack felt a flash of anger. "Why are you pushing this, Ian?"

As usual, Ian was unfazed. "Weren't you just going on about how hard it is to find a date in London? Something about how all the men are either gay, married, or—"

"—Emotionally dead?" Jack shot back.

To Ian's credit, he didn't feign confusion. "Dead seems like an exaggeration," he said quietly.

In the coffeepot, the dark liquid began to foam, almost to the rim. Ian removed the pot from the heat, and Jack had just begun to stir down the foam when—

_DING-DONG!_

The doorbell reverberated through the house. Ian glanced at Jack.

"Someone for you?"

"Sure. It's either the best friends I haven't seen since college, or the devastatingly handsome boyfriend I don't have. Wanna take bets?"

Ian raked a hand through his hair. "You know, you have an extraordinary talent for making me feel guilty."

Jack tried not to laugh. "I'll get the door."

"Jack—"

She smirked at the note of caution in his voice. "Ian, please. A crazed murderer isn't going to ring the bell."

The doorbell rang a third time, and Jack strode quickly through the living room, trying not to be too annoyed at whatever door-to-door salesman had interrupted her night. She'd be nice—probably—but she wasn't interested in buying cookies or knives or the newest religion. Especially not in the middle of the night.

At first, when Jack swung the door open, the porch seemed empty. Then she glanced to the right, and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh my God."

A man was leaning against the redbrick wall, cradling one arm and breathing fast, but still grinning. He wore jeans, a black shirt, a dark leather jacket.

"Good to see you, Jack."

She stared at him, at the small cut bleeding over one eye, at the handsome, slightly cocky grin she hadn't seen in years.

"Ash," she said slowly, "what the hell are you doing here?"

ARARAR

_Jack couldn't believe that brunch could possibly drag on so long._

_She'd only been living with the RIders for a month, and she doubted the job would last much longer at this rate. She slid a spatula under the banana pancake and flipped it over. The underside was fluffy and golden, thank God. She'd already burned three pancakes in a row, and she didn't think Ian and his old friend, Ash—a dark-haired, handsome thirty-something man who'd dropped in completely out of the blue—would let her live it down if she charred another batch. She could hear their voices, refreshingly casual, from the dining room._

"_Alex," Ash was saying, with mock-seriousness, "if you're as good as Ian claims, you and I will have to go head-to-head."_

"_I'm okay," Alex said modestly._

_Ash chuckled. "Ian, my God. There's such a thing as too much humility."_

"_You would say that," Ian agreed, deadpan._

"_It runs in the family, Alex," Ash said firmly. "Your dad could kick some serious arse with a football."_

_As Jack entered the dining room, balancing a tray of pancakes, Ash was pouring himself another cup of coffee. "Here's the woman of the hour," he declared, winking at her._

_Jack forced a smile. "And I've managed not to burn down the kitchen yet."_

_Ash's dark eyes glittered; he held Jack's gaze a moment too long._

"_Pity," he said finally, as Jack slid a pancake onto his plate. "The smoky flavor was starting to grow on me."_

"_Add some syrup," Jack said flatly. _

_Ian, who had just cut into his pancake, cleared his throat. "Jack, why don't we cook the next batch together?"_

_Jack gasped when she saw the inside of Ian's pancake, lumpy and half-raw, oozing pancake batter. She snatched up the plate before Ian could take a bite and poison himself. "Your advert said babysitting and light housework. No cooking in the job description."_

"_Ah," Ash said, eyes sparkling. "It all becomes clear."_

_Jack turned away, her flush deepening. Humiliated would've been an understatement. _

_Behind her, Ian's chair scraped back. "Jack, sit down and have some coffee."_

"_I'll look at some recipe books," she promised, trying to sound self-assured. "I'll ask my mom for cooking advice—"_

"_Coffee, Jack." Ian took her arm and steered her to the table. "You've been working too hard."_

_She winced. "Look, I know I'm not perfect, but you don't have to be sarcastic—"_

"_I meant with your studies." Ian met her eyes. "Hard as this might be to believe, your cooking isn't the main reason I enjoy having you around."_

_His gaze was clear and disarming. Jack noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that Ash was watching closely._

"_I think there's a box of honey-nut cheerios in the pantry," she admitted._

_A ghost of a smile crossed Ian's face. "Sounds perfect."_

_She nodded a silent thank-you and went to fetch the cereal from the kitchen._

"_What's her story?" Ash murmured, propping his elbows on the dining room table._

"_Jack's been looking after Alex for almost a month now," Ian said, with a quiet note of affection._

"_Right." Ash cleared his throat. "Is she—seeing anyone?"_

_In the kitchen, even as she scraped half-raw pancakes into the trash bin, Jack couldn't suppress a smile._

ARARAR

On the doorstep, Ash looked different—older, slightly fatigued. But he had the same curly black hair, the same penetrating dark eyes.

"I was in the neighborhood," he said. "Thought I'd drop by and say hello."

"What happened to you?" Jack demanded, folding her arms.

"Oh, this?" He touched the cut on his forehead. "Pub fight. You know me. Four guys to one—they came at me with a knife and a broken bottle. Luckily I was able to save the damsel in distress and whip up a nice Molotov cocktail to finish them off."

Jack couldn't help but smile. "You're lying, Ash."

"Embellishing," he corrected, his dark eyes glittering.

He was still breathing faster than usual. Jack glanced over her shoulder into the living room; the TV was turned to the National Geographic channel, some kind of ocean special. Rainbow fish were flitting in and out of a coral reef, oblivious to the shadow of a Great White gliding of above them.

"Ian won't be pleased to see me," Ash said wryly.

At that precise moment, Jack heard footsteps and felt an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Then Ian was beside her, leaning almost casually against the doorframe. It was strange—Jack knew they were old friends, knew that her and Ash's failed romance shouldn't have affected the history between the two men—but the tension was almost unbearable.

"Ash," Ian said calmly. "Don't suppose it crossed your mind to ring first."

The dark-haired man grinned, but somehow it didn't reach his eyes. "Not particularly, no."

"What if I'd been away on business?"

"I knew Jack would be here."

"Forgive me if I'm not reassured," Ian said flatly.

Ash's smile slipped a notch. "I need somewhere to stay."

"Find a hotel," Ian suggested. "Or—here's an idea—I'm sure you've got half a dozen old girlfriends in London who'd be willing to put you up."

For a split second, Ash grinned roguishly. "In more ways than one."

Jack blinked; Ian's blue eyes flashed.

"See you around, Ash."

And that was it. End of story. Jack stared, incredulous, as Ian shut the door in Ash's face and locked it tight. There was a beat of silence.

"What the hell," Jack said sharply, "was that?"

Ian slid past her, into the living room. "Jack—"

"He just wants to come inside."

"Thanks," Ian said wryly, picking up the Arabic file he'd tossed aside earlier. "I hadn't noticed."

"He's bleeding."

"He's fine."

"_Ian_." Jack grabbed his arm. "I know you're trying to protect me, but Ash isn't here to make me feel like shit about what happened four years ago. I think—" She took a deep breath. "I think he's in some kind of trouble."

Ian looked her in the eye. "Jack, trust me. Ash can take care of himself."

"Maybe," Jack agreed softly. "But that doesn't mean we should slam the door in his face."

Ian's eyes flickered with something between exasperation and amusement. "Haven't you had enough guns pointed in your face for this decade?"

"Guns?" Jack echoed, her voice rising with disbelief. "The man's a deep sea diver! Who's gonna come after him, the National Scuba Association?"

"He gets caught up in things." Ian hesitated a fraction of a second. "Gambling. Drugs. Things like that."

"So if I was having money problems and drinking a little too much, you'd tell me to pack my bags?"

Ian rubbed his forehead tiredly. "The circumstances are slightly different."

"Bullshit. He's your friend."

They stared at each other, cold blue eyes and smoldering green ones. A few years ago, Jack might've been tempted to blink, to turn away and mutter an apology. Now, in the subterranean light from the TV screen, she held his gaze and waited patiently.

With a frustrated noise, Ian turned away and strode to the front door.

"Change of heart?" Ash said cheerfully, as Ian yanked the door open.

"You could say that."

Ash crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him. There were four locks; Ian bolted them, one after another, while Ash's eyes swept over the living room—the sunflower-yellow Van Gogh print on the wall, the apple-scented candle on the coffee table, the owl-shaped pillow on the red leather couch. A familiar smile tugged at his lips. Against her will, Jack felt her heart flutter. This was the first time she'd heard Ash's voice in years.

She was shocked by how much it hurt.

ARARAR

_Jack stumbled out of the night club, laughing uncontrollably. She could still feel the dance floor pulsing beneath her feet, could still see Ash's eyes glowing as he drank her in. She recognized, vaguely, that he was guiding her through the parking lot._

"_Come along, Jack," he instructed, half-laughing._

_Jack giggled, almost hysterical. "God, can you imagine Ian at a place like this?"_

"_You'd be surprised."_

"_No," Jack said decisively. "No—he just needs to get out more."_

_She knew, hazily, that her words were slurring together and Ash's face was swimming in the darkness. This probably meant she was drunk._

"_I think I'm drunk," she confessed, just above a whisper._

"_I think you're right," Ash agreed, his arm around her waist. "My car is this way."_

"_Your car!" Jack bounced—as much as was possible in black stilettos—in excitement. "Your pretty silver Porsche! Ian has a nice car, too. A few nice cars, actually."_

_For a long moment, Ash didn't speak. When he finally did, his voice was cold. "We've been talking about Ian quite a lot, haven't we?"_

"_He's too hard on Alex," Jack murmured, nearly tripping over the cement curb. "He can't see how amazing Alex is." Maybe it was the alcohol, but she could suddenly feel the pinpricks of tears in the corners of her eyes._

"_Jack." Ash sounded frustrated. "Remember, we agreed to forget about work and have some fun."_

_They'd reached the Porsche, and Jack leaned back against it, trying to catch her breath. "That's the thing," she said. "Ian doesn't have any fun."_

"_Not like us," Ash agreed, moving closer._

"_Maybe we should drag him out here," Jack mused. "Maybe—"_

_Before she could say another word, Ash's lips were pressing against hers, and his body was pinning her against the car, and she realized fuzzily that she was kissing him back. His kisses were rough and deep, his hands greedily exploring her body, and for a few moments she let herself forget about everything. About work. About law school. About Ian._

_(How would it feel if Ian were kissing me like this? Fierce, passionate—)_

_She jerked as though electrocuted._

_(Where the hell did _that _idea come from?)_

"_Mmph—" She tried to pull away.. "Ash, wait—"_

"_Come on." His hands felt like they were everywhere. "Just you and me, Jack."_

_Then the car door was open, and somehow Jack was sprawled across the leather seats, and he—Ash, she reminded herself—was straddling her, kissing down her neck. She could feel that he was already hard. And it wasn't supposed to be a big deal, was it? She'd already slept with him, after their third date, and it had been good. Incredible, in fact. He was good-looking, and funny, and she'd been dancing with him all night—it didn't make any sense that she didn't want to do this, no damn sense at all—_

_But Jack could make excuses all night. She still didn't want it._

"_Ash." _

_She tried to pry him off her. He was kissing lower, down the plunging neckline of her little black dress, and she realized with a sudden jolt of fear that she couldn't push him away, not even if she wanted to._

"_Ash—"_

_He slid one hand under her skirt, pushing the fabric out of the way._

"_Ash, stop!"_

_Finally, he heard her. He pulled away and stared down at her, panting. She couldn't see clearly in the darkness, but there was something predatory in his eyes. Something hungry. She was pinned beneath him, his face inches away._

_Suddenly, Jack felt sober. And almost scared._

"_Okay," Ash said finally, clearing his throat. "Right. Sorry."_

"_It's okay," Jack said, straightening her dress._

_He climbed off her and helped her sit up. "Back to my hotel?"_

_Jack shook her head, trying to clear her vision. Her whole body felt a little shaky—and it wasn't just the alcohol. "Not tonight."_

"_Your choice." He slid behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. "Let's get you home. Or back to Ian's, at any rate."_

ARARAR

Jack and Ash sat on opposite ends of the kitchen table, facing each other, sipping Turkish coffee. Ian had gone upstairs to grab a blanket and a roll of gauze, and Jack hoped he'd hurry back. Ash's eyes were dark, unreadable.

"You look the same," he said finally.

Jack traced a circle on the tabletop. "Who'd you piss off, Ash?"

He smiled without humor, leaned back, lit a cigarette. "Do you want that alphabetically or chronologically?"

Jack watched the glowing embers. She remembered him flicking ashes to the curb as they reached the dance club, remembered wondering why a man who dove to dangerous depths for a living would risk his lung capacity. A haze of smoke drifted across the kitchen table; she drank deeply from her mug. The coffee was strong. Bitter.

"How's Alex?" Ash said at length.

"More like his uncle every day," Jack said honestly. "I'm not sure he remembers you—it's not like you've ever sent a Christmas card."

Ash nodded slowly. "I remember he looked remarkably like his father."

"He's changed a lot since then," Jack said, smiling slightly.

Ash met her eyes. "You've changed a lot, too, Jack."

The statement was meant to unnerve her. Jack swirled the dark coffee in her mug and said nothing. Felt nothing.

Ash smiled ruefully. "You know, there was a time when you genuinely liked me."

"There was," Jack agreed softly. "Like you said, I've changed a lot."

ARARAR

_Jack's skates rolled across the pavement. The sun was beating down relentlessly; her strawberry ice cream cone was melting in her hand. _

"_I feel like I'm about twelve years old," she confessed, laughing._

_Ash caught her by the arm and kissed her deeply. "I doubt," he breathed into her ear, "that twelve-year-old Jack was so naughty."_

"_You'd be surprised," Jack countered, green eyes sparkling._

_Earlier that afternoon, Ash had surprised her with a pair of pink vintage roller skates and a trip out to Hyde Park. They'd stopped for ice cream along the way, and now they were taking their time along the winding paths, pausing whenever Ash decided that her lips looked particularly irresistible._

"_I hope Alex is okay," she murmured, popping the last bite of her ice cream into her mouth._

"_Ian's watching him," Ash said dismissively. Then he cleared his throat. "Incidentally, what does Ian think of all this?"_

_Jack blinked. "All what?"_

"_You know." He lifted their clasped hands. _

_Jack smirked. "Oh. That."_

"_Yeah."_

"_I don't think he cares. Why should he?"_

_Ash watched her, his dark eyes unreadable._

"_What?" Jack said, slightly self-conscious._

"_I've been with quite a few women," Ash said, serious for once. "From all over the world."_

"_Good to know," Jack said dryly. _

"_But never anyone quite like you."_

_Jack smiled slightly. "Is this your way of saying that this is more than a fling?"_

_He shrugged, supremely casual again. "Not exactly."_

"_Good," she said, brushing her lips against his, "because a fling is fine with me."_

"_When can I see you next?"_

"_Ian's working late this Friday. And Alex has football practice."_

_Ash brushed his lips against hers. "You bring the strawberries, and I'll bring the whipped cream."_

ARARAR

When Ian descended the stairs, arms full with a blanket and first aid supplies, he found Jack and Ash sipping Turkish coffee at the kitchen table. There was a lit cigarette between Ash's lips, a cloud of smoke hanging in the air. Ian closed his eyes briefly.

"Ash," he said, making his voice calm. "Put that out, please."

Ash shrugged, flicking ashes into the kitchen sink. Ian threw the roll of gauze at him, harder than was necessary, and sat beside Jack. She looked visibly tense, and Ian understood why. Ash had hurt her. And now he'd sauntered into what was supposed to be her safe space. Safe, of course, being a relative term. Their house had seen armed intruders and vengeful assassins, but an ex-boyfriend was another thing entirely. And said ex-boyfriend was currently studying Jack, with unbearable smugness, over the top of his coffee.

"So," Jack said, her voice tight. "What's it like, swimming with the fishes?"

Ash glanced up, his arm half-out of his leather jacket. "Sorry?"

"Your job," Ian muttered.

Ash stared at him for a long moment, and then something clicked. "Oh—yeah, it's going well. I just dove past three hundred meters last night, on trimex."

Jack frowned. "Three hundred meters?"

Ian knew he shouldn't call attention to the lie; it could blow Ash's cover. But the man still hadn't put out his cigarette.

"You're getting dangerously close to the record there, Ash," he said flatly.

_DING-DONG!_

Ash jerked in surprise; Ian stood up.

"Anything you've been meaning to tell me?" he said.

Ash cleared his throat. "Well—I might've made a bad first impression on local law enforcement."

Someone was banging on the door. In the background, sirens.

"POLICE! OPEN UP!"

Ian sighed, massaging his temples. "And they might be in the process of a large-scale manhunt."

"Like I said, I was in the neighborhood."

Ian flung the blanket at Ash. "Hide."

"Where?"

"Figure it out." Ian turned toward the kitchen table. "Jack, I'm sorry, but we're going to have to be creative if we want to keep Ash out of police custody. Just play along."

But Jack didn't move. She was still staring at Ash.

"You went deep-sea diving?" she echoed. "Last night? And then you flew out to London?"

Ash understood, too late, his mistake. "Might've been two or three nights ago," he said hurriedly. "I've lost track of time. I'll have to take you diving sometime, Jack. It's a thrill."

"I've been diving," Jack said slowly, "with Ian and Alex."

Ash's smile faded. "How was it?"

"We had to wait twelve hours to get a plane home, because the change in altitude can cause decompression sickness," Jack said. "And we only dove to thirty meters."

There was a long silence. She waited for Ash to make some excuse; he didn't. Ian looked slightly wary.

"POLICE!" More pounding. "WE WILL FORCE ENTRY!"

"So," Jack said finally, "you're not a deep-sea diver."

Ash didn't look at her.

"What are you?" she pressed. "A criminal? A government operative?"

"That's giving him too much credit," Ian said dryly.

Jack's head was spinning. "You lied to me. You just lied, for years."

"To be fair, I only actually knew you for a couple months." Ash raked a hand through his dark hair. "I suppose you're going to slap me or something."

BANG!

"That was a gunshot," Jack whispered.

She could see that Ian was thinking very fast. "The door's reinforced," he said. "They won't be able to break it down, so they're trying to shoot out the locks."

"That can't be legal," Jack hissed.

"Ash, hide downstairs," Ian said, his voice cracking like a whip. "Don't come back up—don't even make a sound—until I give you the all-clear."

With a brief nod, Ash grabbed the blanket and took off for the basement, ducking low to pass undetected beneath the kitchen window.

Ian glanced at Jack.

"Right," he said grimly. "This isn't going to be big on dignity."

ARARAR

Forty-year-old detective Richard Downey was taking aim, bracing himself to fire a second shot into the metal lock (_why _hadn't it given out yet?) when he heard a disgruntled shout from within the red-brick house.

"Shit, I'm coming! Don't get your knickers in a twist!"

Downey stepped back, startled, and raised his firearm to eye level. He heard the scratch of metal locks and the rattle of a door chain, and a moment later the door swung open.

"Can I bloody help you?"

Downey blinked. The man in the doorway was tall, blonde, and justifiably pissed off. He wore only a pair of gray plaid boxers, and didn't seem shy about his bare arms and legs and torso, nor did he seem concerned about the gun pointed in his face. Behind him, blushing, a red-haired woman was hiding her body with an owl-shaped pillow. She wore pink cotton panties, a half-buttoned men's shirt over a bright-yellow lace bra, and nothing else. Her long red hair was tangled, her legs long and smooth and bare.

"Oh," Downey said, raking a hand through his thinning brown hair. "Erm—"

"What do you want?" the blonde man said impatiently, leaning his elbow against the doorframe.

Downey frowned slightly. It was impossible to mistake the defensiveness of the man's pose, but was it merely a demonstration of annoyance, or an attempt to block the rest of the house from view?

"I—i'm Detective Downey, with the local P.D. I'm here to help."

"We didn't call you."

Downey cleared his throat. "There's a fugitive in your neighborhood. Violent. Possibly armed. And your next-door neighbor, Ms. Clementine Hargrove, witnessed a man approaching this residence who fits the description."

"Of course she did." The blonde man rolled his eyes. "Must've forgotten her medication."

Downey glanced back at the dark street. "I have two squad cars standing by. If you know _anything _about this fugitive—anything at all—it's your legal obligation to tell me."

"Nobody here but Jack and me," the man said flatly.

"Why—why didn't you answer the door sooner?" Downey said, trying to sound dignified.

"We were busy," the red-haired woman chimed in, her cheeks red enough to match her hair. "Upstairs."

"You didn't hear me knocking? Yelling?"

The blonde man folded his arms, with unmistakable swagger. "We tend to get loud."

Downey cleared his throat again. Ordinarily, the situation would've been embarrassing enough to elicit an immediate retreat. But something didn't add up. The woman next-door had called in, breathless, panicked. Why would she make up the whole story?

"Right," Downey said, holstering his weapon. "Just let me have a look around, and I'll be on my way."

He made to enter the living room; the blonde man didn't move.

"This is a private residence," he said coolly.

"And I've got probable cause," Downey said, just as coolly. "Stand aside, please."

The blonde man shrugged and stepped back. He looked perfectly unconcerned—though perhaps a little annoyed—but it was impossible to miss the glimmer of anxiety in the red-haired woman's eyes, or the way her gaze darted downward.

Downey's eyes narrowed. "One more question. Does this house have a basement?"

ARARAR

Oh, God. Jack watched, horrified, as the detective strode importantly through the living room. This was bad. This was harboring-a-fugitive, impeding-a-federal-investigation bad. Even if she hadn't been to law school, Jack would've known that the situation could lead to some serious jail-time.

"Make yourself at home, Detective," Ian said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "There's coffee in the kitchen, if you'd like."

Downey moved ahead of Jack and Ian, toward the kitchen and dining room.

"Alright, Jack?" Ian breathed, almost inaudible.

"Kind of cold," she muttered.

Ian's gaze was locked firmly on her face. "I never told you to take off your—"

"My socks?" Jack said flippantly, grabbing her jeans off the back of the couch.

Ian shook his head, faintly amused, and followed Downey to the kitchen. There were two wineglasses, half-full, on the counter.

Downey's forehead creased. "You've been drinking?"

Jack glanced sideways at Ian. "Just a little."

"And you were apparently too—distracted—to notice me pounding at the door?"

Jack glanced at Ian again, searching for a cue. His eyes widened a fraction of an inch. _Go on, Jack. You know what to say._

"Call me old-fashioned," she said, fixing Downey with a glare, "but I don't think that's any of your business."

The detective wasn't fazed. "I'm only wondering if you could've gotten so—impassioned—that you failed to notice an intruder. But that's not the real question."

Jack folded her arms. "Really."

"Yes." Downey looked shrewdly at Ian. "The real question is why this woman needs to look to you for approval every time she says a word."

Oh God. Jack's stomach twisted. The detective's theory wasn't difficult to figure out. Downey thought Ian was Ash's accomplice and that Jack was being held hostage, forced to play along. The man was probably seconds away from alerting back-up.

"Listen," Jack said, allowing her frustration into her voice. "I'm not some kind of fifties housewife. I don't need Ian's approval for anything. I keep _glancing _at him because he's got a hell of a temper, and you've invaded our home, and I want to make sure he's not going to do something stupid, like knock your head through the wall."

Ian didn't bother to hide his amusement. "Fifties housewife, though. That'd be a fun role-play."

The detective looked flabbergasted. He stepped toward the basement stairs. Hesitated. Then he reached into his wallet, pulled out a business card, and scribbled something down on the back.

"Here." He extended the card to Jack. "My private line. If you see the man in question, don't hesitate to contact me."

Jack looked down at the card, and at the detective's untidy message:

"_If you need help, blink twice."_

Jack stared coldly at him. "Don't wait by the phone."

She and Ian followed Downey back through the living room, Ian drinking deeply from his wine glass. On his way out, Downey picked up the framed photograph of Ian, Jack, and Alex at the playground. Examined it. Set it down again.

"Okay," he said finally. "I apologize for the intrusion."

Then, mercifully, he was gone.

"Thank God," Jack said, letting out her breath in relief.

"Well," Ian said, his voice clipped. "That was no bloody fun at all."

Jack turned away and locked the door. She realized, vaguely, that Ian still didn't sound like his usual self, but at first the significance eluded her.

"Ian, do you think—"

Before she could finish the question, Ian pulled her around to face him—not roughly, but with urgency. He shook his head, and Jack changed tack mid-sentence.

"Do you think there's really a killer running around Chelsea?"

"He didn't say anything about a killer," Ian said, nodding his approval. "Just a fugitive."

"Well, that just killed my mood," Jack mumbled, meeting his eyes. _Ian, what the hell is going on?_

He turned the picture frame upside-down and held it out for Jack to see. There was a tiny black circle stuck to the underside of the frame.

Jack stared at it. "What the—"

Ian pressed a finger to his lips, and Jack understood. The man had bugged the house. One wrong word would send the police running, but getting rid of the tiny microphone would cause even greater suspicion.

Jack took a deep breath. Okay. So what if the house was bugged? The situation could've been much worse. If she and Ian carried on like everything was normal, and if Ash kept quiet, the police would lose interest. They'd assume that his suspicions were misplaced.

This hopeful thought had hardly crossed Jack's mind when Ash's footsteps came thudding up the basement stairs.

"He's gone, then?" Ash called cheerfully.

Ian swore under his breath; Jack's hand flew to her mouth.

"Don't move," Ian ordered, his voice tight. "Hands behind your head."

Jack stood slowly. "What—"

"_Shut up_. We're going down to the basement, all three of us. Just do exactly what I say."

Jack stared at Ian, frankly shocked. He gave her a helplessly apologetic look as he wrenched the tiny microphone off the picture frame and dropped it into his wineglass.

"You were fantastic, Jack," he said, sounding like himself again—albeit a dangerously calm, adrenaline-fueled version of himself. "I'm sorry I spoke to you like that."

"Ian," she said, horrified, "what—"

Ash appeared in the living room doorway, arms folded casually. "Mind telling me what's going on?"

"You wanted them to hear you," Jack realized, the blood draining from her face. "Now they think you're an accomplice."

Ian nodded distractedly. "Of course they do. Jack, I need you to—"

"Don't," Jack said sharply. "I was wrong, Ian. Don't take the fall for him."

Ash's smile faded. His eyes flicked from Jack to Ian. "I suppose I missed the half-naked memo."

"No time," Ian said, his words quiet and fast. "I'll delay them here." He tossed Jack her gray sweatshirt. "They think we're in the basement. I need you to put this on and barricade yourself in the upstairs bathroom."

"I'm not letting you—"

"Ash," Ian continued, pulling a plain white T-shirt over his head, "slip out an upstairs window and hot-wire the Ford two houses down. Make sure you follow the speed limit and use headlights, or the police will realize something's off."

"I'm not bloody stupid," Ash muttered, his face darkening.

"Could've fooled me," Jack snapped. "Ian, please don't do this."

"Jack—"

"I convinced you to let him inside because I wanted to prove a point," she said, the words tumbling out. "Not to him. To myself. I wanted to prove I could handle it. But if you end up getting in trouble for it—"

"Jack," Ian said firmly. "Do you trust me?"

She met his eyes reluctantly. Of course she trusted him.

"Fine," she muttered.

She snatched up the gray sweatshirt. Hurried to the stairs. Glanced over her shoulder.

"Why the sweatshirt?"

Ian shrugged. "You said you were cold."

Jack remembered, in that moment, exactly why she loved him.

ARARAR

_On Friday evening, when Ian stepped through the front door, he knew immediately that something was wrong. Jack's black-and-white Chucks were on the doormat, her backpack overflowing onto the white couch, but there was no rustle of papers from the kitchen. No grunge rock or eighties power ballads blasting from upstairs._

_He set down his briefcase and moved to the kitchen. There were two half-empty wineglasses on the counter._

"_Jack?" he called._

_At that precise moment, he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. Then Ash was in the doorway, tugging a shirt over his head. His eyes widened. "Ian."_

"_Something wrong?" Ian said slowly._

_Ash blinked. "Ah—we just didn't think you'd be home for a few more hours."_

_Ian nodded. He didn't buy it for a second. "Sorry to interrupt."_

"_No worries," Ash said cheerfully, moving into the living room to grab his shoes._

_Cautiously, not wanting to intrude on Jack, Ian ascended the stairs. "Jack?" _

_In the upstairs corridor, the rose-colored lights were dimmed. Jack's room was empty, but Ian's bedroom door was slightly ajar. He approached slowly. _

_Jack was sitting half-dressed on the black futon, cradling her arm where an angry bruise was forming. Her long red hair fell around her face like a curtain, and it was only because of that reason—and because of the tears sliding down her cheeks—that she didn't notice Ian in the corridor._

"_Damn it," she whispered, her voice hoarse. _

_She swiped at the tears. With each passing second, the bruise throbbed more painfully._

_Ian turned away, fighting to control a blinding rush of anger. This time, he took the stairs two at a time. Ash was just reaching to open the front door when Ian grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him around. Automatically, Ash lashed out against his attacker's grip; Ian caught his wrist and slammed the dark-haired man up against the wall._

"_Really?" Ash said, almost lightly. "You want to do this right now? Spy on spy, mixed martial arts, in the middle of the living room?"_

"_It's time for you to leave, Ash."_

_Ash raised an eyebrow. "I hope your furniture's insured."_

_Ian released his wrist, but didn't back away. "You've spent enough time in London. Better to keep moving. Isn't that what you always said?"_

_Ash's smile was cold. "I thought we were friends."_

"_We were," Ian said flatly._

_Ash's eyes darkened. He glanced toward the stairs, lowered his voice. _

_"Alright, then. __I don't care if the incompetents at MI6 worship the ground you walk on. You think you can intimidate me, Ian? You're nothing. John Rider's kid brother. Alex is my godson, not yours, and I'll visit whenever I like." His dark eyes flashed, and for the first time since he'd come to visit, a ruthless edge was visible beneath his charm. "Maybe you've forgotten. Who did John want as his best man? Who'd he ask to be Alex's godfather?"_

_Ian smiled without humor. "Don't make the mistake of playing games with me, Ash." He stepped closer. "What happened between you and Jack?" _

"_I didn't mean to hurt her," Ash said, slightly defensively. "She just—she's a bit of a tease, that's all. We both got carried away." _

_Ian's blue eyes were burning with cold fire._

"_Ash," he said, very quietly, "if you ever touch Jack again, I'll kill you."_

_Ash stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, he shook his head and laughed._

"_Have it your way, Ian. __I hope you two are very happy together."_

_He strode quickly out the door, digging into his pocket for his car keys—Ian sat down on the couch, resting his head in his hands. Slowly, very slowly, the rage and adrenaline faded away. He looked up just as Jack was entering the living room. She wore a baggy sweatshirt; her hair was wet from the shower._

"_Where's Ash?" she said. "I need to talk to him."_

_Ian rubbed his forehead tiredly. "I ran into him on his way out. Sounds like he got called back to Australia, some urgent new find."_

"_Oh." Jack nodded, her eyes troubled. "Okay. Good for him."_

"_He told me to apologize for him," Ian added casually. "Does that mean anything to you?'_

_Jack shrugged, avoiding Ian's gaze. "I guess he's sorry for leaving."_

"_Are you okay?"_

_The question was more direct, and more personal, than he'd ever asked her. Jack stared at him, annoyed and embarrassed and grateful all at once._

"_I'm fine," she said finally, smiling. "As long as we're not having pancakes for dinner."_

ARARAR

Jack couldn't believe this was happening. As far as she knew, everything had gone according to Ian's design. Ash had escaped—the bastard, she thought tiredly—and Ian had surrendered to the police who forced their way into the living room. But now it was one in the morning, hours after Ian had been handcuffed and led out to a squad car, and Jack was still pacing the lobby of the Metropolitan Police Station, biting her nails down to the bone, wondering what the hell was taking Ian so long.

"God," she whispered, wetting her lips, "please let him have a back-up plan."

Then, almost on cue, the grimy door to the interrogation rooms swung open. Ian was alone—no handcuffs, no armed guard. Jack almost laughed, weak with relief.

"How the _hell _did you talk your way out of this one?"

Ian shrugged, looking as casual as if he'd just stepped out to the grocery store. "I told the truth."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

He nodded. "I explained that Ash held us both at gunpoint. If I hadn't played along and pretended to be the bad guy, he'd have killed us both. There was no contrary evidence on their tape, and I never attempted to resist arrest, so—" He shrugged again, looking faintly amused at the flabbergasted look on Jack's face.

"It's disgusting, how lucky you are," she marveled, shaking her head. "I swear to God, Ian, if you ever risk your life for Ash again, I will _kill _you."

"Noted."

They walked together out to the Jaguar. Jack had the keys; she'd followed the squad cars out to the police station. But, before unlocking the door, she paused beneath the starry night sky and turned to face Ian.

"I just wanted to tell you," she said, "I know what you did."

"What?"

"The last time Ash was here."

There was a long silence, punctuated only by the rush of traffic. It had been four years ago; it felt like yesterday.

"I'm sorry," Ian said finally.

Jack smiled slightly. He never used to apologize so freely. "Why?"

"I know you liked him, Jack. I didn't mean to—"

"Yes, you did," Jack said bluntly.

Another silence.

"Thank you," she added softly.

If Ian had been feeling reckless, if his self-control had wavered even for a split second, he might've kissed her. Instead, he nodded quietly.

"Let's get you home, Jack. You've got a date in the morning."

**Yay! You reached the end! I know people have mentioned that I shouldn't apologize for length, but I realize that this chapter was REALLY long...thanks for taking the time to read it. :) Review? Pretty please with a cherry on top?**


	17. The Girl Next Door

**Okay, guys, I've got a confession to make: remember last time, when I said I'd update in two weeks? Well, "weeks" was actually code for "months"...can't believe you guys didn't pick up on that! (blush) DON'T BE MAD AT ME! Here's a chapter for you...I'm doing my very best, I promise!**

**Also, for those who've asked...I'm trying to follow canon, but only to a certain extent. Anthony Horowitz definitely never said that Ian and Jack were in love. Then again, he never exactly said they WEREN'T... :P**

**Sorry in advance for typos. Once again, I'm just trying to get this posted. Ready, go! **

"Ian, pick up the phone!"

No answer, of course. Swearing under her breath, Jack Starbright hung up her mobile and crawled forward a few inches, hands and knees pressing into the wet grass of the front lawn. Next door, through the dusty window, a glimpse of movement.

"Shit," Jack muttered, wetting her lips.

She'd woken up early, in the hopes of planting strawberries in the front yard. The day before, she'd planned the whole thing in a spontaneous whirlwind, and Ian had thrown together a redwood garden frame in about the time it took Jack to grill Thai chicken and pineapple slices for dinner.

But she'd barely been planting strawberry seeds for five minutes when she heard the unmistakable shatter of glass from next door. Very quickly, Jack noticed two things. One: Clementine Hargrove's dark-blue sedan wasn't in the driveway.

And two: her front door was slightly ajar.

Jack didn't know whether to laugh or cry. _Not again._

Ian hadn't picked up his office line, but perhaps he'd left his mobile on. Jack dialed with trembling fingers. "Please, pick up, please please please—"

"Rider."

"Thank God," Jack blurted in relief.

"What—" Ian started.

"You're probably in a meeting or something," Jack cut in, her words all tumbling out too fast, "but I didn't know who else to call, and I couldn't find that old plastic gun in your sock drawer—"

"Jack," Ian said sharply, "tell me what's wrong."

She glanced next door. "I—I think—"

"Where's Alex?"

"He's fine—he's at school." Jack squinted into the bright sun, trying to see through Clementine's front window. "I think the house next-door is getting robbed."

A beat of silence. Birds warbled cheerfully in the treetops.

When Ian spoke, his voice was unnervingly calm. "Tell me you're inside with the doors locked."

"It's getting _robbed_, Ian. I just came out to plant strawberries, and I saw the door open and heard glass breaking, and—" She swallowed hard. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Jack," Ian said, with special emphasis on each word, "phone the police_. _Right now."

"But—"

"Clementine's not at home, is she?"

"Well—" Jack traced a circle in the fresh dirt. "No."

"Then everything will be fine."

"They'll take her stuff. Maybe hurt her cats."

Ian blew out his breath in exasperation; Jack could almost see him ironing his face with his hands. "Right. Her cats." He lowered his voice. "Jack, if they know you've spotted them, they'll kill you. _Get inside._"

Slowly, Jack crossed the front yard, soft blades of grass tickling her feet through her sandals. On the porch, she grabbed the doorknob. Hesitated. The morning was silent, the air still and calm.

Then, from next door—

"AHHHHGH!"

Birds scattered into the sky; Jack's heart nearly stopped.

"Shit," she breathed.

"What?" Ian said sharply.

"I heard someone scream," she hissed, clutching the mobile so tightly that she was shocked it didn't break apart. "From next door. I have to do something."

"No, Jack—"

She ignored him. Of course, by this point, Ian would've already saved Clementine's life, disabled the robber with his own weapon, and probably pulled a cat or two out of a tree for good measure.

But Ian wasn't here.

ARARAR

_Bloody hell._

Ian Rider knew Jack wasn't listening—or, if she'd heard him, she didn't care. He slipped on a Bluetooth headset, grabbed his car keys from beneath a stack of papers, and pushed past Agents Llewellyn and Skinner in the conference room doorway.

"Meeting's supposed to go another hour, isn't it?" Skinner called after him, chortling.

But Ian had already sprinted down the corridor, past the lifts, and past a bemused-looking Tulip Jones. He was on the fourth floor; stairs would be faster.

"Jack, still there?" he said, adjusting the earpiece.

"Yeah," she said faintly.

"Listen to me." Ian made his voice calm, even as he wrenched open the door to the stairwell and took the steps two-at-a-time. "Just wait a few minutes. I'm on my way now."

"I'm not stupid, Ian." Jack's voice sounded strained, anxious. "Whoever screamed in there, they might not have a few minutes. Maybe I can just—just stall the robbers until you show up—"

"No," Ian cut in, raking a hand through his hair. "I know you want to help, but another hostage just makes things worse."

Half-a-flight below, two older men in black suits were deep in conversation, blocking the stairwell; Ian vaulted the handrail, landed on the steps just below them, and kept running. Within seconds, he'd emerged onto the first floor. The lobby was nearly empty—he pushed through the glass doors and unlocked his BMW without even glancing down at the keys.

"I've got a gardening spade," Jack murmured.

"Good," Ian said, with more than a touch of sarcasm. "As long as it'll stop bullets—"

There was a dull click on the line; she'd hung up. Ian swore under his breath, slid behind the wheel, and peeled dangerously fast out of the parking lot. He knew Jack better than anyone. He wished she'd put her own safety first, wished she'd sit back and wait for him to show up.

But he knew she wouldn't.

ARARAR

Jack's heart was pounding at about a thousand beats per minute, but the metal spade in her hand was quite steady.

"Ian," she mumbled," hurry up."

With one hand, she pushed open Clementine Hargrove's front door. The foyer was dark and empty, with cream-colored walls and hardwood floors. Carefully, channeling her ballet lessons from age five and Ian's advice on how to remain undetected during hide-and-week, Jack tiptoed inside. A bookshelf lay overturned in her path. From around the corner, she heard the dull thud of a cupboard door.

_Here goes nothing._

With a yell of aggression, Jack hurtled around the corner, brandishing the spade.

She found herself face-to-face with an armful of pots and pans.

"What the—" Jack said, bewildered.

She barely had time to absorb the light-blue-dyed hair and black sundress, the hazel eyes framed with a little too much eyeliner, the arms piled high with kitchen supplies. Then the pots and pans came crashing to the floor.

"AHHHHHHHHH!" the woman shrieked.

"Wait," Jack shouted, raising both hands in a gesture of peace.

But she'd forgotten about the spade in her hand. The blue-haired woman stumbled backward, her eyes locked on the makeshift weapon.

"GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

Jack blinked. "_What_?"

The woman snatched up a frying pan and groped behind her for the phone. "Back off—I'll call the cops, I mean it!"

"I almost called them myself," Jack said, stunned. "Listen, I think there's been a misunder—"

"YAH!"

The woman lashed out with the frying pan; Jack barely had time to duck. But when the woman struck out again, Jack was ready—she'd at least picked up _something _from Alex's karate lessons. She caught hold of the woman's wrist and twisted her arm around—not violently enough to injure her, but enough to ensure that the frying pan clattered to the floor.

"Get off!" the woman shouted.

Jack stumbled backward, her heart thudding in her ears.

"Listen," she said desperately. "I'm not breaking in—I'm not trying to hurt you."

The blue-haired woman was panting, her back pressed against the flower-patterned wallpaper. "Of course. You're not trying to hurt anyone. You just thought you'd barge into my kitchen and attack me with a shovel."

"It's—it's a spade." Jack flushed. "I thought the house was getting robbed."

"You expect me to believe that?"

Jack winced. "I—I know this sounds crazy, but I didn't realize my old neighbor had moved out. And when I didn't see her car in the driveway—"

"Wait." The woman blinked. "You live next-door?"

Jack nodded, trying to ignore the unpleasant heat creeping up her cheeks. "Guilty as charged."

"You were just trying to help?"

Jack scratched her head. "Um—sort of."

"Well, that changes things," the blue-haired woman said, abandoning her defensive pose. "Think you could help me find the fusebox?"

ARARAR

Ian swerved into Clementine Hargrove's driveway and jumped out of the car without even bothering to slam the door behind him. Clementine's front door was still slightly ajar; Ian felt the familiar rush of adrenaline. He wasn't sure what he'd be dealing with—amateur burglars, dumb teenagers, sadistic killers, or even past enemies who'd accidentally attacked the wrong house. Normally, he might go discreet. But if Jack was seconds away from serious harm, his top priority was to draw attention away from her.

He pushed through the front door, letting it bang loudly against the wall. There was a bookshelf sideways in the foyer; he vaulted it easily and skidded around the corner, reaching for the gun at the back of his waistband.

Then he froze.

"Jack," he said, releasing the cold metal of the gun, thankful she hadn't seen it, "a heads-up would've been appreciated."

Jack's lip twitched, and Ian was irrepressibly reminded of himself.

"Right," she said quickly. "Sorry. We got talking, and I forgot to call you back."

Jack was sitting on a brown-upholstered sofa beside a young woman Ian had never seen before, slim and willowy, with silky blue-dyed hair, carnation-pink nails, and a flock of tiny blackbirds tattooed across her collarbone.

"Lemonade?" the woman offered.

"This is Valerie," Jack said, smiling at Ian's raised eyebrows. _Oh, come on. I said I was sorry._

"I just moved in a few days ago," Valerie explained cheerfully.

Ian's eyes swept over the small, cluttered dining room. On the counter, there was an espresso machine still in its Kitchenware box; on the tile floor, broken shards of a porcelain plate had been swept into a neat pile. On the counter, a napkin was smeared with a few spots of bright pink.

"Right," Ian said, half-amused, enjoying the sight of Jack flushing and embarrassed and _safe_. "Let's see if I've got this right. You were bringing in kitchen supplies, Valerie. You'd left the front door open to air out the nail polish, and you accidentally broke a plate when you tripped over the bookshelf in the hall." He glanced at Jack. "So there's the open door and the broken glass. What about the scream?"

"I—how'd you know—" Valerie cleared her throat. "I saw a mouse."

Ian frowned. "A mouse?"

"A really big one," Valerie said defensively.

She looked the part of a woman who'd just moved into a new place—tired and slightly harried, but also optimistic. There were boxes everywhere, half-unpacked.

"You don't seem like a Valerie," Ian said quietly.

Valerie stared back at him, bemused. "If you've got a time machine, maybe jump back twenty-five years and tell that to my parents."

"Point taken," Ian said, with a faint half-smile.

"I'm almost all moved in now," Valerie added proudly. "Only took a couple days."

"I didn't see a moving van," Ian remarked, not accusatory, just curious.

Valerie raised an eyebrow. "Well, Jack tells me you're not home much. Maybe you missed it."

Ian glanced at Jack, who looked sheepish.

"I told her you're the overseas finance manager," she said. "Lots of travel."

Ian tried not to laugh at the look on her face. "Well, it's true." _At least partially._ "And how'd the spade-based assault work out for you?"

Jack hadn't flushed so deeply since the day she'd moved in. "What the hell else was I supposed to do? Attack with the gardening hose?"

"Jack's got some moves, though," Valerie said seriously.

Jack laughed. "You should see in Ian in action."

Ian shook his head, a glint of amusement in his clear blue eyes. "No, you probably shouldn't." He scooped his keys off the table. "It was nice to meet you, Valerie. I should head back to the office—a woman named Mrs. Jones is probably less than pleased with me."

"He'll be back home at six," Jack added, in an undertone to Valerie, "assuming he doesn't get shipped off to Tokyo or Kyrgzstan or something."

Ian met Jack's gaze. "Kyrgyzstan?"

Jack looked away to keep from laughing. "Anyway, I think I'll help Valerie unpack some boxes. Save the strawberries for tomorrow."

Valerie winked at Ian. "And we'll save the heavy stuff 'till after six."

"That reminds me," Ian said briskly, as Jack poured another glass of lemonade. "I noticed outside, Valerie—you might need to replace one of your porch steps. I can show you where the wood's rotting through."

He led the way to the dark, empty foyer. Valerie trailed after him, her sandals clicking on the floorboards.

"Why the hell didn't this Clementine woman fix it?"

Jack had remained in the kitchen; Ian held open the front door and followed Valerie out onto the porch.

"Clementine Hargrove rarely left the house," he said, his voice dry. "Or her cats."

Valerie chuckled, as Ian shut the door behind them. "I have an auntie like that—"

"Stop." Ian's voice was hard. "Just stop."

Valerie blinked. "What?"

Ian and Valerie stood face-to-face in the April sunlight. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted slightly—surprised, taken aback, but still smiling. Ian hadn't noticed a tell: no double-blink, no fidgeting, no facial tick. She could've won an Oscar.

"You're not bad," Ian said, so quietly she had to strain to hear him.

"I—" Valerie's smile faltered. "I'm sorry. What the hell are you talking about?"

"You saw a mouse?" Ian repeated, with an air of clarification.

"Yeah." Valerie crossed her arms over her chest. "What's so crazy about that?"

"The woman had five cats."

Valerie shrugged. "And apparently at least one mouse."

"I noticed a few of the boxes you were unpacking," Ian added, would-be casual. "Classic rock vinyls."

"I do like to get the Led out," Valerie admitted.

"A watercolor set. Scented candles."

The woman smirked. "And that offends you?"

"A box full of paperback books. Dostoyevsky. Vonnegut. Even some Lewis Carroll and C.S. Lewis."

"What the _hell _is it to you?" Valerie snapped, suddenly aggressive. "I don't even know who you are."

Ian stepped closer, staring into her eyes, so that he could be very sure she got the message.

"I'm not surprised that you're here," he said, very quietly. "In fact, we could've used some back-up in the past. Alex's eighth birthday comes to mind."

"Alex?" Valerie said, tilting her head quizzically.

"What I haven't figured out yet," Ian continued, watching her face for any sign of acknowledgment, "is why you're targeting Jack."

They stared eye-to-eye for a long moment. Ian could see the wheels turning in Valerie's head—could see her trying to decide whether to respond at his level or to keep up the charade. Her game was futile, of course; a quick call to MI6 would verify that Blunt had stationed an agent at this address, to keep tabs on one of the organization's most valuable assets.

Valerie seemed to have reached the same conclusion.

"I'm not targeting Jack," she said, her lips hardly moving. "She doesn't matter; I'm just trying to blend."

Ian smiled without humor. "First field assignment?"

It was a calculated insult. Her hazel eyes flashed.

"You have no idea, Rider."

Ian shrugged, with an arrogance that he knew would infuriate her. "Welcome to the neighborhood."

He left her there, nonplussed, on the porch. He knew, of course, that something was off. Valerie was far from a standard MI6 bodyguard—in fact, she hardly seemed capable of maintaining her composure in a less-than-critical confrontation. She must've been selected for another reason.

And Ian couldn't help but notice that Valerie was twenty-five years old and liked classic rock.

ARARAR

Two weeks later, Jack's world had been turned upside-down.

"Ian," she said, setting a pot of coffee on the table, "when did I become so pathetic?"

Ian and Alex both looked up, with identical expressions of surprise. It was an early morning, with the blood-orange sun barely peeking through the clouds. For most of breakfast, Alex had been half-asleep on the kitchen table, his face hidden by a shock of blonde hair. He and Jack had spent the previous night next-door with Valerie, eating popcorn—not the air-popped variety that Ian liked, but the good, buttery kind—and watching the _Back to the Future _trilogy.

"Jack," Alex said, stifling a yawn, "you're not pathet—"

"I think it was a year after I moved in here," she mused, clutching the handle of her empty mug. "Definitely after my twenty-third birthday."

Gently, Ian pried the mug away from her and poured her coffee—no sugar, just a splash of cream. "Maybe you'd feel better if you'd gotten more than three hours of sleep."

"There were two sequels," she said defensively. "I couldn't let Alex go to bed on a cliffhanger."

Ian raised an eyebrow. "Well, to be honest, it probably wouldn't have killed him."

Alex was staring down into his glass of orange juice as though he'd rather drown himself in it than ride his bike to school.

Jack sighed. "Fine, I'm flighty and irresponsible. Eat your breakfast."

She dropped Ian's plate in front of him: a spinach and feta egg-white omelet, sourdough toast, a cup of Greek yogurt mixed with toasted walnuts, Asian pears, and a drizzle of honey. Ian looked faintly amused.

"Remember when you hated cooking?"

"I still do," Jack insisted. "This breakfast took nine minutes to prepare."

A familiar half-smile. "I stand corrected."

"Good," Jack said, refusing to be deterred. "Now, back to my original problem—"

"You're not pathetic, Jack." Ian massaged his eyelids. "Does this have something to do with Valerie?"

Jack shrugged, sliding into her seat across from Alex. "How'd you know?"

"Just a wild guess."

"Thinking of dying your hair?" Alex said, deadpan.

Jack glowered at him. "Smart-aleck."

"Getting a tattoo, then," Alex amended innocently.

Ian lifted his newspaper to hide his grin; Jack scowled at the pair of them. "I'm serious, you guys. Do you realize that, in the past three years, Valerie is the first new friend I've made?"

"I suppose we don't count," Alex mumbled, lowering his eyes in a feigned pout.

Even in her wild fit of self-analysis, Jack had to suppress a smile. "Oh, cry me a river, Alex."

She grabbed her spoon and mixed the pears and walnuts into her yogurt. She'd been telling the truth—it was alarming to realize how long it'd been since she'd connected with someone her own age. She loved Alex, of course, but he was like a brother. She loved Ian, too, but that love made everything complicated. Sometimes painful.

Valerie was twenty-five. She loved eighties rock and mixed drinks—she and Jack had made plans to go window-shopping.

The sheer normalcy was exhilarating.

"I don't suppose Valerie gives a damn that Alex has school today," Ian said quietly, as the eleven-year-old boy finally dragged himself into the next room to collect his backpack.

Jack swirled her spoon in her yogurt. "Well, she's not exactly Alex's babysitter. It's not her responsibility."

"What's your excuse, then?"

Jack blinked. "I mean—I know Alex shouldn't have stayed up so late, but it was just one night."

A brief pause—Ian said nothing.

"Want me to pack my things?" Jack said finally, half-smirking.

Ian's lip twitched, and the tension evaporated. "Only if you've got a week to spare."

"Good point." Jack tried to catch his eye. "So, since when do you care about bedtime? Is this some new bank-sponsored initiative?"

Ian only half-shrugged, scooping a bite of yogurt.

Over the years, Jack had learned to read Ian's cool blue eyes, but he could still block her out if he so desired. At the moment, his gaze was indecipherable.

"You're not going to tell me what's wrong, are you?" she said softly.

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Nothing's wrong, Jack."

She smiled back, reluctantly. "Fine. I'm going to hit Portobello Market with Valerie. Phone me if you hear from the bank."

His eyes flickered—Jack wondered, briefly, if he regretted that his prolonged absences had become such a fixture in Jack's daily routine that she could mention them as casually as a doctor's check-up or a grocery trip.

As she rinsed her plate at the sink, she could feel Ian watching her. But she didn't know what to say, so it was easier not to say anything at all.

ARARAR

A few hours later, draped with a new rose-patterned scarf and a large pair of faux-designer sunglasses, Jack decided that next time she wanted to browse without buying, she'd leave her wallet at home.

Behind Jack, Valerie trailed along casually, her arms draped with packages. "I could definitely get used to the shopping here."

The eclectic shops and little cafes of Portobello Road were buzzing with crowds—half the people were entranced with some mysterious treasure in a storefront window, the other half convinced that the window-shoppers had come out for the sole purpose of standing in everybody's way. Overhead, the sun peeked out occasionally from behind a curtain of clouds.

"Dinner?" Jack suggested, checking her watch.

Valerie glanced across the street. "How 'bout cupcakes?"

Jack couldn't help but grin. "I'm pretty sure we're the same person."

They crossed the street to the Hummingbird Bakery—a quaint brown storefront with a stylish text sign and heavenly-looking cupcakes stacked in the windows—fluffy and sweet, with pink and white and chocolate frosting, with buttercream swirls and rainbow sprinkles. Valerie led the way through the door, and Jack's eyes raked over the display window greedily; upon moving to London, she'd taken the tube out here a few times too many, just to satisfy a persistent cupcake craving.

"Strawberry cheesecake is the best," Jack said reverently, digging for her wallet.

Valerie shook her head. "No. No, no, Jack, look at all the _chocolate_."

"Ian would be talking about how a sorbet or a fruit cup would be so much healthier." Jack snorted, stepping up to the counter. "Death-by-double-chocolate, please?"

Five minutes later, Jack was eating the crumbs off her cupcake liner, while Valerie popped the last bite of peanut-butter-brownie cupcake into her mouth.

"Oh God," she moaned. "I think I just gained three pounds."

Jack laughed. "Don't worry. Shopping burns calories."

They'd sat down to eat at an outdoor, café style table; the hustle-and-bustle streamed around them like the waters of the Thames.

"Ian doesn't like junk food, then?" Valerie guessed.

"Nah. He's sort of a health nut."

"And a fitness nut, too, it sounds like."

Jack blinked; she couldn't help but notice that her conversations with Valerie always seemed to devolve into a discussion of Ian Rider.

"Val," she said slowly, "don't take this the wrong way, but why do you care?"

Jack half-expected the blue-haired woman to deny it, to change the subject. But Valerie's hazel eyes were somber.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I guess I do have ulterior motives."

Jack leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Oh _really_."

She was already ready to snatch up her purse and catch the tube back to Chelsea. Her mind flooded with grim possibilities. Either Valerie was a criminal, posing undercover as an innocent twenty-five-year-old woman in order to get close to Ian—because criminals and robbers and the like seemed to just _love _him—or else Valerie had a crush on Ian, which, in Jack's opinion, was a dramatically worse option.

But Valerie just sighed. "Jack, I can see how torn up you are about this."

Jack blinked. "What?"

"You've been in love with this guy for years, trapped in this bizarre almost-relationship. It's like a damn soap opera."

"There's some action in there, too," Jack protested weakly.

"Yeah, sure. The point is, it's my job as your friend to give you a chance to talk about it."

Jack stared at Valerie over the remains of two empty cupcake liners. The woman's hazel eyes were bright and earnest and expectant; she wore a little too much eyeliner, and there was a smudge of chocolate icing on one of her red-painted fingernails. And suddenly, Jack was disgusted with herself. The last thing she wanted was to end up as distant and cautious as Ian. Valerie wasn't an undercover anything—she was just a friend. It'd been so long since Jack'd had one that she'd forgotten how it felt.

"Okay," she said, just above a whisper. "Promise you won't tell anyone."

Valerie grinned. "Cross my heart."

"I mean _promise._"

"I can pinky-swear, if that'd help," Valerie offered, her eyes sparkling.

"This is all just speculation," Jack added hastily. "An old friend of Ian's visited a little while ago, and it was—I mean, it ended in an escaped fugitive and a trip to the police station. And—" She hardly even noticed Valerie's startled expression; now that Jack had decided to confide in someone, she couldn't focus on anything else. "And it got me thinking."

"Yeah?" Valerie leaned forward, her elbows on the circular brown table. "About what?"

"Don't laugh."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

"I—can't."

Jack smiled ruefully. "Fine." She lowered her voice, to just above a whisper. "What would you say if I told you that Ian Rider was a spy?"

ARARAR

One ring—two—three—inside the bakery, Valerie closed her eyes, her back pressing against a mural of giant cupcakes, the phone ringing in her ear.

Finally, a faint click. "This is Rider."

"Okay, pal," Valerie hissed, low and urgent. "We have—" She coughed to muffle her words. "A situation."

"Well done," Ian said calmly. "If I were a wire tap, I'd have lost all interest by now."

Valerie glanced over her shoulder, through the shop window. Jack was still sitting outside, staring down at the crumbs on her napkin. Valerie had claimed to be going inside to use the restroom—she'd left Jack looking startled and embarrassed, the word "spy" hanging like a neon sign in the air.

"Just listen," Valerie said tersely. "This is important, and I only have a couple minutes, unless we want your housekeeper to think that last cupcake didn't agree with me."

"I can tell you've been spending time with Jack. You're starting to sound like her."

"_Fine_," Valerie shouted, abandoning all attempts at speaking in code. "Forget secrecy. Jack knows."

A beat of silence.

"What?"

It might've been Valerie's imagination, but Ian sounded as though his cool had been shaken.

"Yeah," she said, savoring his stunned silence. "Jack just told me her 'theory,' and it's dead on. Apparently, you're not as untouchable as we all thought."

When Ian spoke again, he didn't sound nearly as panicked as Valerie had expected.

"I suppose this would stop Tulip calling Jack a 'paranoid simpleton'—if Tulip ever found out."

His voice was calm, tinged with calculation and what sounded like slight admiration. But Valerie latched onto one word.

"_If_?" she repeated, eyebrows raised.

"You're not going to report back on this," Ian said, as though it should've been obvious.

"Is that a threat?"

To Valerie's utter shock, he laughed. "No. It's a fact. Jack only has a theory—I'm sure you'll be able to dissuade her. Think of it as diplomatic training."

Trying to ignore the casual insult, Valerie made her voice firm. "I'm required to report back to Mrs. Jones."

Another brief silence; Valerie could imagine Ian rubbing his forehead, trying to figure out how to maneuver his way out of this.

"Valerie—" he began.

"You should know better than to judge by appearances," Valerie snapped, dropping the airheaded-mid-twenties-punk-rock persona. "It's my job to report what I find here."

"They'll take her visa," Ian said quietly.

"Well, that's the point," Valerie said impatiently. "Why do you think they picked me?"

Ian answered without hesitation. "You're someone Jack can relate to. Our—employer—engineered everything for a 'chance' meeting between the two of you, to earn Jack's trust. Your job is to decide if she's a security risk and, if necessary, eliminate that risk."

"So you understand."

"Of course," Ian said calmly.

"Who cares if she gets shipped back to the States?" Valerie added, heartened by his agreement. "You'll be better off without some American girl hanging around all the time, anyway. I haven't had a headache this bad in years—I might go home and listen to nails on a chalkboard, just to relax."

Ian didn't laugh.

"Valerie," he said, his voice flat and cold, "I'll only say this once."

With a jolt, Valerie realized she'd said something wrong.

"You're not going to breathe a word to Mrs. Jones about this," Ian said. "You're going to do your utmost to make Jack reconsider her theory, and we're never going to discuss it again. If they pull Jack's visa, she won't be the only one out of a job." He lowered his voice. "And, Valerie?"

Her head was spinning. "Yes?"

"For the record, that was a threat."

There was a solid click; Valerie stared at her cell phone, at a loss for words. Behind her, the shop bell jingled, and tourists wandered inside, and a girl in a white visor grabbed a pineapple upside-down cake from the display case.

"Oh my God," Valerie muttered.

Jack had admitted that she was in love with Ian.

But she'd never mentioned that Ian loved her back.

ARARAR

Jack stared down at the tabletop, torn between feeling sick and exhilarated. She couldn't believe she'd said it aloud. The theory had been bouncing around in her head for weeks, ever since Ash blew though town, but saying the word "spy" aloud made everything feel simultaneously very real and very stupid.

"Okay," Valerie said briskly—Jack looked up, startled, as Valerie dropped back into her chair and pushed a cupcake across the table. "This is for you, Jack. Let's figure this shit out."

Jack stared down at the lemon meringue cupcake, fluffy golden cake beneath a cloud of frosting.

"Thanks, Valerie, but I'm not hungry."

Valerie chewed on her bottom lip. "Jack—"

"And I'm not crazy, either," Jack cut in, her green eyes flashing. "I know you think I've seen one too many Bond movies. But just listen to the evidence, okay?"

"Okay." Valerie leaned forward patiently. "Lawyer me."

"One," Jack said, ticking off each number on her fingers, "extended absences in about a million foreign countries. Two, mysterious bruises and sprained arms every time he comes home."

Valerie nodded, unconvinced.

"Three," Jack pressed stubbornly, "proficiency in at least four foreign languages—French, Italian, Arabic, Spanish—actually, make that five or six languages. He's spent a lot of time in Japan and Korea." She blinked. "I wonder if it was South Korea or North?"

"Five or six languages," Valerie prodded gently.

Jack nodded, snapping back on track. "Right. Number four: a ridiculous knowledge of mixed martial arts, and an ability to thrive under pressure. How many white-collar bank managers do you know who could take down an armed gunman, or manipulate his way through a whole damn bank robbery?"

Valerie forced a smile. "Just the one."

"And five," Jack said, her green eyes like steel, "I know him better than anybody, but I still don't really know him at all."

And that was it—case in point. There was a long, stretching silence. A breeze fluttered Jack's scarf and nearly blew her napkin off the tabletop.

"Jack," Valerie said.

Reluctantly, Jack met her gaze. "What?"

"I hate to say this, Sweetie. But I think you're way off-base."

It was like a slap in the face. Jack stared at her.

"But—you've met him. Isn't it possible that he's so cool and unshakable all the time because he's a spy?"

"Sure," Valerie said doubtfully, a smile tugging at her lips. "Or maybe you think he's a spy because he's just a cool, unshakable guy."

"If he's not a spy, he could be. You should see him in action."

"Lots of people study martial arts," Valerie said patiently.

Jack raked a hand through her long red hair in frustration. "But—"

"And the injuries," Valerie pressed. "He claims they're side-effects from his free time on business trips, right?"

Jack nodded, staring down at the frosting-smudged tabletop. "He'll say he sprained his arm rock-climbing in France, or zip-lining through the rain forest in Peru, or something exotic like that."

"Well," Valerie said, very gently, "are you sure he's lying?"

Jack's green eyes flickered with frustration. "I'm not crazy, Valerie."

Valerie almost flinched; it was surprising, and a little alarming, to realize that she actually cared what Jack thought of her. This hadn't been part of the plan at all.

_It's just an assignment, _she reminded herself_. Don't be so attached._

"Just hear me out," Valerie said, staring Jack in the eye. "Ian took you and Alex with him to the Bahamas, right?"

Jack nodded; a few days earlier, she'd told Valerie all about the Bahamas trip.

"You rented a speedboat," Valerie continued, "just the three of you. And then you decided it'd be a good idea to climb the hull of a rotting old shipwreck and jump ten meters down to the water."

Despite herself, Jack smiled. "It was fun."

"Sure, Jack, but you're missing my point. Think of the risks. Jellyfish and stingrays and sharks. An old rusty ship, with sharp edges, dangerously high above the water." Valerie shrugged. "Anybody could've ended up with a few scrapes and bruises."

Jack chewed on her bottom lip. "What're you getting at?"

Valerie shrugged apologetically. "Sounds like Ian's a bit of a thrill-seeker. Why's it so hard to believe his injuries come from the same type of stuff? You know—dirt-biking, or sky-diving, or whatever adrenaline junkies do in their spare time."

"Ian's not an adrenaline junkie," Jack disagreed.

"Right. He spent last weekend rock-climbing with Alex because he's a total couch potato."

Jack stared down at the frosting-smudged tabletop. Her eyes were glistening with almost-tears; Valerie could only imagine her confusion.

"I just—" Jack swallowed hard. "There's got to be more to it."

"Why?" Valerie said gently.

"Because if there's no secret—"

She left the thought unfinished, but Valerie could fill in the blanks. If Ian didn't have some life-changing secret, a mysterious past or top-secret responsibility or _something_, it meant he was just a bank manager who didn't want to be with her. Simple as that.

"Look," Valerie said. "Maybe there's something he doesn't want to tell you. But a _spy_? Jack, come on—this isn't an action movie, okay?"

Overhead, the sky was darkening. Jack bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"You're right," she said softly. "How could I have been so stupid?"

"You're not _stupid_, Jack—"

"No," she exploded suddenly. "Why the hell would a spy be taking care of a seven-year-old kid? And why would he need to put out a housekeeper advert? MI6 could've just set him up with a professional. Maybe even a bodyguard."

Valerie blinked. "Y—yeah, probably."

"He told me from the beginning," Jack plunged on—there were tears shining in her eyes now. "Overseas finance manager. Key word: overseas. But I just refused to listen."

Valerie patted her arm, feeling horribly insincere. "Jack—"

"Oh, God." Jack pushed back her hair, hands shaking. "All these years—all these years, I've been seeing conspiracies everywhere. Treating Ian like a liar. And for what?"

Valerie didn't have an answer, but luckily Jack didn't expect one; she covered her face with her hands, and her long red hair fell like a curtain around her, and genuine sympathy tugged at Valerie's heartstrings. Ian had no idea what he'd done to this poor woman.

"I'm sorry," Jack managed, with a wild burst of laughter. "I—I just met you, and I'm already dumping my psychosis in your lap—"

"Oh, Honey." Valerie patted Jack's arm gently. "Don't apologize."

Jack glanced up with a valiant attempt at a grin. "This is—y'know. Sort of a weak moment for me."

Valerie offered a small smile. "Sure."

"I'm going to catch the tube home." Jack shrugged miserably. "I guess I just need to be alone."

Valerie nodded. "I'll head back in an hour or two, if you need to talk."

"Thanks."

Jack pushed back her chair, turned away, and walked down the strip with her eyes downcast; Valerie felt a rush of triumph.

_Mission: accomplished._

ARARAR

Five minutes later, Jack glanced over her shoulder, scanning the crowds for a flash of Valerie's blue-dyed hair. Nothing—the woman must've hung back at Portobello Market, to give Jack the alone time she'd asked for.

Trying to suppress a smile, Jack dug into her pocket for her phone. As usual, Ian's number was first in the "Recent Calls" queue—and second, and third. He was the only person she ever called.

The phone rang once. Twice.

"Jack?" Ian said, through a crackle of static.

"You finally programmed me into the caller I.D.," Jack said, with a wry smile.

"It's a new phone," he reminded her. "I lost the old one in Japan."

"Sure." Jack turned the corner—up ahead, she could see the sign for Ladbroke Grove Station. "Where are you?"

"Just got home. Everything okay, Jack?"

"Fine," she said cheerfully, glancing down at the cupcake in her hand. "Do you like lemon meringue?"

"Do I—what?"

"Valerie bought me a cupcake, but I don't want it."

"Save it for Alex."

"Oh—duh." She glanced over her shoulder again. "Thanks, Ian—I'll be home soon."

A brief pause. "You just called to ask me about the cupcake?"

"Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"Ah—" He sounded faintly amused. "No. See you soon."

He hung up; Jack wrapped the cupcake in a napkin, stuffed it into her purse, and descended the concrete stairs to the Underground. She was just thankful that Valerie had been so easy to convince. At first, it had been almost exhilarating to lay out all the facts. What if Ian was a spy?

But then, halfway through Jack's explanation, it hit her.

What if Ian _was _a spy?

Jack still didn't know if her suspicions were accurate. But if they were—if Ian was a spy in some capacity or another—there was no way in _hell _that Jack was going to let him get his cover blown because of her.

ARARAR

At home, Ian slid his phone into his pocket. Valerie words were still ringing in his ears.

"_Jack just told me her 'theory,' and it's dead on. Apparently, you're not as untouchable as we all thought."_

Ian looked out into the front yard, where Alex was bouncing a football from knee to knee, where strawberry plants had just started to sprout out of the earth—but he didn't really see any of it.

He'd never bought into the illusion that he was somehow above anyone else. But ever since he'd met Jack, she'd been pulling him closer and closer to earth. He tried to imagine her saying the words. Couldn't.

_I'm just going to have to be more careful, _Ian decided.

But deep down, he knew it was more than that. He'd always been careful. He'd kept his professional life and his home life painstakingly separate—except for the unavoidable moments when it all shattered, when disgruntled enemies crawled out of the woodwork, or when an undercover agent moved in next door. Or, even worse, when Alex said something faintly sarcastic, or executed a perfect roundhouse kick, and Ian suddenly became hyper-aware of how much like his father Alex was becoming. How much like his uncle.

These moments were few and far-between. But Ian's obligation to keep his secret was hindered by the fact that, deep down, he wasn't even sure he wanted to keep it.

Of course, it hardly mattered what he wanted. But he was a rock, and Jack was a whirlwind. Immovable object, unstoppable force.

Ian rubbed his forehead tiredly.

_I'm going to have to be a _lot _more careful._

**There you go! Thoughts? Suggestions? Drop me a review...free cupcakes for everyone! :) Seriously, all feedback is so appreciated. I'm trying to keep up with this story, and reviews really help me to keep writing!**

**P.S. Over the holidays, I was in London (and France, Switzerland, and Italy...BEST three weeks ever!) Those of you who live in London, or anywhere cooler than Michigan, USA, I'm officially jealous. :)**

**Thank you SO MUCH to all the amazing people who reviewed the last chapter: pipsky, DelightfullySpiffy, armanifan101, red rose of love, Monster Mads, all4dobby, mytenno, Sakiku, Leonessa Ivanovna, Fraulein Weisenheimer, HerGoldenWings, 32-star, Tonnocal, Sacred3, I I I Jemm I I I, ObiBettina7, Shane, jesusfreak100percent, K-limero, Iamawsome, Heeyyyooo (lol), RandomGeek, scorpiogirl93, SilverrAngell, Emma zooka, Akira Setsuka, kiwismakemehappy, Nyxelestia, ., Arika Ito, Fearlee, InLoveWithAFairytale, Ilira, Chaos Dragon, lazyxhime, Nylah, Agent Striker, Allison J, Z, constant3, a couple Anonymous's :), Millipher Steerus, Claire Ride, eddiebella jackson, ZeZe123, Lullyanne, T3LL M3 4 ST0RY, 93, Kaiyira, Lightning And Blossoms, Magical Socks, KusajishiFuktaicho, and Nika! You are all AMAZING, muchas gracias and extra cupcakes to all...and may I just say that you guys have pen-names that are very fun to type :P**


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